/ 


>     SMI" 

i        °^  ^ 

L°ng  ^ach 
Long  Beach   2, 


THE  PROBLEM 


HOPE  GLADDEN 


RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 
BOSTON 


Copyright,  1913,  by  Richard  G.  Badger 


All  Rights  Reserved 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


To  My  Nieces 
HELEN  AND  DOROTHY 


SRL6 
URL 


thee  mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest; 
Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

Robert  Browning. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I      The  Surprise    9 

II  The  Picture's  Background. ...      16 

III  Mabel's  Visit    _.,......     20 

IV  Willa's  Reception 24 

V      The  Neighbors 32 

VI      The  Quilting    ,. .     40 

VII      Character  Revealed 44 

VIII      The  Delayed  Vacation 52 

IX      At  the  Old  Home 57 

X      The  Doctor's  Opinion 62 

XI      The  Visitor 67 

XII      New  Plans .... 74 

XIII  A  Joyous  Return 80 

XIV  New  Lessons  Taught.,. . ......      86 

XV      The  Invitation   93 

XVI      Old  Memories 99 

XVII      Mutual  Friends 104 

XVIII      At  Uncle  Dick's 109 

XIX      The  Angel's  Mistake ..,. .    114 

XX      Echoes  from  Canton 119 

XXI  Her  Cup  Runneth  Over. .;. . . .    125 

XXII      For  All  Time 129 

XXIII  One  Heart  and  One  Mind  ...    133 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIV  Welcome  News   , 138 

XXV  The  Little  Stranger 146 

XXVI  Taking  Root  in  New  Soil 152 

XXVII  Tightening  the  Heart  Strings.  157 

XXVIII  The  Trio 162 

XXIX  Double  Honors 170 

XXX  In  the  Race 176 

XXXI  Christmas  at  Grandpa's 183 

XXXII  In  the  Nick  of  Time 188 

XXXIII  Contentment    194 

XXXIV  The  Discussion 201 

XXXV  The   Promise    210 

XXXVI  Breaking  the  Seal 215 

XXXVII  Heart  to  Heart 229 

XXXVIII  Changes    239 

XXXIX  The  Picture's  Perspective 246 


THE  PROBLEM 


THE  PROBLEM 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  SURPRISE 


1 


"%HERE  was  scarcely  a  person,  place,  or 
thing  around  the  charming  village  of 
Woodrow  that  Dr.  Hunt  M.  Warren 
did  not  know  and  love.  It  was,  there- 
fore, no  wonder  that  the  people  of  that  place  loved 
him;  or  that  Grandma  Adams  when  she  fell  and 
broke  her  wrist,  or  little  Susie  Plummer  when  she 
had  the  croup  wanted  Dr.  Warren  instead  of  the 
young  Dr.  Ellery  who  had  recently  settled  there, 
and  had  made  his  brags  about  feeding  Warren's 
horses  on  straw  before  the  season  was  over. 

The  people  of  that  little  town  were  a  genuine 
people  who  recognized  and  appreciated  true  worth, 
and  never  more  so  than  in  their  tried  and  trusted 
friend  who  had  stood  so  loyally  by  them  in  storm 
and  sunshine. 

One  morning,  in  the  latter  part  of  August,  Dr. 
Warren  waked,  turned  over,  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  wondered  how  much  longer  he  might  allow 
himself  this  luxury.  His  wondering  lasted,  how- 
ever, for  scarcely  more  than  a  second ;  for,  almost 
instantly,  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on 

9 


io  THE  PROBLEM 

the  gravel  walk,  and  soon  after  a  vigorous  ring 
of  the  door  bell. 

Ned  Munson  was  at  the  door.  His  mother  was 
ill  and  needed  the  Doctor  at  once.  The  latter,  on 
seeing  Ned's  horse  standing  by  the  gate,  wet  with 
sweat  and  with  the  white  froth  dripping  from  his 
mouth,  said: 

"All  right,  Ned.  Will  come  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, but  you  better  stand  your  horse  under  the 
shade  trees  to  cool  off  a  bit." 

He  then  turned  to  call  Si,  who  slept  in  a  small 
room  off  the  kitchen,  but  Si  had  also  heard  the  bell 
and  was  nearly  dressed. 

While  the  Doctor  donned  the  thinnest  summer 
suit  he  possessed,  Si  went  to  the  stable  to  harness 
Nell,  the  Doctor's  little  bay  mare  that  certainly 
held  her  own  place  in  the  Warren  family. 

After  hitching  the  mare  into  the  thills,  Si  step- 
ped to  the  side  of  the  carriage  to  replace  the 
cushion.  It  was  the  man's  custom,  whenever  the 
carriage  came  in,  to  tilt  the  cushion  bottom  side  up 
against  the  dasher  in  order  better  to  protect  it  from 
dust  and  horse  hairs;  because,  as  he  said,  "It's 
mighty  hard  to  brush  out  around  them  buttons." 

This  morning,  as  he  reached  for  the  cushion, 
his  heart  almost  stood  still.  The  rubber  boot  that 
he  had  left  tucked  in  the  pocket  in  front  of  the 
dasher  had  been  removed  and  carefully  spread 
so  as  practically  to  conceal  a  willow  basket  hidden 
beneath  its  folds,  and  yet  raised  a  sufficient  height 
to  allow  the  air  to  pass  to  the  place  that  needed 


THE  SURPRISE  n 

it  most.  This  was  the  first  time  that  Si  had  even 
glanced  at  the  carriage  itself,  or  rather  at  the 
inside  of  it.  He  quickly  threw  the  boot  aside,  and 
there,  enjoying  the  sweetest  sleep,  lay  a  tiny  infant 
about  two  months  old. 

"By  crackers!"  said  Si,  under  his  breath. 

This  was  an  expression  peculiar  to  the  man,  and 
one  that  he  always  used  in  times  of  great  surprise, 
whether  of  gladness,  or  sorrow,  or  just  "common 
surprise,"  as  his  mother  used  to  say. 

During  this  time  the  Doctor  had  dressed,  drunk 
the  eggnog  that  his  wife  had  prepared  meanwhile, 
and  which  often  served  for  his  morning  meal  on 
occasions  like  this.  As  Si  had  not  brought  the 
team  around,  the  Doctor  picked  up  his  medicine 
case,  gave  Mrs.  Warren  a  parting  kiss,  told  her 
she  had  better  "trot  back  to  bed  for  an  hour,"  and 
then  walked  out  through  the  shed  into  the  stable. 

Three  steps  led  from  one  to  the  other,  and  as 
the  Doctor  went  down  these,  he  heard  Si's  excla- 
mation and  noticed  the  expression  on  his  face.  Af- 
ter those  two  words  were  uttered,  the  fellow 
seemed  speechless;  and,  when  the  Doctor  stepped 
to  the  carriage,  it  was  his  turn  to  be  surprised. 
For  several  moments  the  tall,  broadshouldered  man 
stood  there,  one  hand  holding  his  medicine  case, 
the  other  resting  on  the  dasher.  He  stared  long 
and  hard  at  the  tiny  creature.  His  brain  was 
working  on  one  of  life's  problems.  At  last,  as 
though  realizing  that  something  must  be  done,  he 
set  the  case  on  the  seat,  threw  the  cover  aside,  and 


12  THE  PROBLEM 

almost  reverently  lifted  the  basket  from  its  rest- 
ing place.  As  he  did  so,  the  morning  light  from 
the  doorway  shone  on  the  baby's  face,  and  eyes  as 
blue  as  the  heavens  looked  up  into  his.  The  deli- 
cate eyelids  winked  again  and  again,  and  then  the 
tiny  fist  was  raised  and  rubbed  over  those  little 
eyes  and  the  finely  shaped  nose.  A  great  gap  fol- 
lowed, but  not  the  slightest  cry  was  uttered.  The 
Doctor  was  about  to  carry  the  little  stranger  into 
the  house  when  the  thought  came  to  him  that  the 
shock  might  be  too  great  for  Mrs.  Warren  unless 
he  prepared  her  for  it. 

After  passing  the  basket  to  Si,  with  the  words, 
"Hold  it  a  minute,"  he  walked  slowly  and  thought- 
fully into  the  house,  wondering  how  to  break  the 
news  to  his  wife. 

The  Doctor  was  a  part  of  her  very  life.  Never 
had  she  grown  indifferent  to  his  absence,  and  she 
was  always  watching  for  his  return.  As  she 
heard  his  footsteps,  she  turned  from  the  window, 
where  she  sat  watching  for  the  carriage  to  drive 
away,  and  one  glance  at  his  face  told  her  that 
something  had  happened.  She  had  slipped  on  a 
dainty  pink  and  white  kimona  of  the  finest  lawn. 
Her  hair  was  naturally  wavy,  and  he  thought 
that  she  had  never  looked  more  lovable  than  she 
did  when  she  rose  to  meet  him  with  the  words : 

"What,  dear?" 

The  word,  "what"  was  so  full  of  meaning  that 
it  might  have  covered  anything  or  everything,  and 
the  "dear"  was  so  tender  whenever  it  came  from 


THE  SURPRISE  13 

her  lips  that  it  seemed  to  him  the  angels  must  hear. 

Laying  one  hand  on  each  of  her  shoulders,  he 
said: 

"Can  Mother  take  a  surprise  this  morning?" 

He  had  called  her  "Mother"  ever  since  their 
little  Angie  was  born,  even  though  the  child  had 
lived  only  a  few  months.  Since  that  time  the  lit- 
tle woman  had  not  been  strong,  but  she  was  brave, 
and  when  her  husband  spoke  in  those  quiet,  even 
tones,  she  always  prepared  herself  for  whatever 
might  come. 

Again,  in  the  same  tones,  she  said: 

"What,  dear?" 

"There  is  a  surprise  out  here.  I  have  something 
to  show  you.  Will  you  come  out,  or  shall  I  bring 
it  in?" 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and  then  said: 

"I'll  come." 

Taking  her  arm,  the  Doctor  led  her  into  the 
stable  where  Si  stood  just  where  he  had  left  him; 
he  did  not  speak,  but  simply  pointed  to  the  basket. 

Mrs.  Warren  looked  first  at  the  baby,  and  then 
at  her  husband,  again  and  again  until,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  she  let  go  his  arm  and  reached  toward 
the  basket  for  the  baby.  The  child  saw  her;  and, 
as  though  catching  the  "mother  look"  in  her  eyes, 
stretched  out  her  little  hands  and  cooed.  As  Mrs. 
Warren  lifted  her  from  the  basket,  something  fell. 
The  Doctor  stooped  to  pick  up  the  long,  stiff  en- 
velope, which  to  his  surprise  was  addressed  to  him- 
self. Within,  he  found  not  only  a  letter  bearing 


i4  THE  PROBLEM 

his  name,  but  another  smaller  envelope,  securely 
sealed,   bearing   the   inscription:     "Willa,   to   be 
opened  on  her  2ist  birthday." 
His  own  letter  read: 

"Dear  and  kind  Sir: 

"Through  circumstances  that  I  am  unable  to 
help,  I  must  either  give  my  child  away,  or  put  her 
in  some  institution.  I  cannot  seem  to  do  the  lat- 
ter, and  if  I  must  do  the  former,  I  know  of  no  one 
to  whom  I  would  so  willingly 'let  her  go  as  to  you 
and  Mrs.  Warren.  I  have  never  seen  either  of 
you,  but  I  have  heard  much  of  both  and  of  your 
kind-heartedness.  As  you  would  wish  your 
own  little  girl  cared  for  had  she  lived,  so  please 
care  for  this  one. 

"In  case  the  question  is  arising  in  your  minds, 
let  me  say  that  she  is  legitimate.  God  alone 
knows  how  it  breaks  my  heart  to  let  her  go. 

"In  the  other  envelope  are  some  papers  that 
may  be  of  interest  to  Willa  when  she  is  of  age.  I 
would  ask  you  for  good  and  sacred  reasons  to 
hold  them  as  a  trust  until  her  2ist  birthday.  She 
was  born  on  the  I7th  of  June,  and  is  now  ten 
weeks  old. 

"If  you  wish  to  be  truly  kind,  do  not  try  to 
trace  her.     I  cannot  write  more.      My  heart  is 
breaking.    Her  father  is  dead,  and  I  shall  go  soon. 
"Very  respectfully, 

"WILLA'S  MOTHER." 

After  reading  the  letter,  the  Doctor  slipped  it 


THE  SURPRISE  15 

into  his  pocket  and  turned  to  his  wife,  saying: 

"Let  us  go  in." 

He  took  the  baby  from  her,  and  silently  they 
walked  into  the  house  together. 

"I  must  go,  Mother,"  he  again  said.  "I  am 
late  now.  The  baby  must  be  fed  and  cared  for. 
I'll  be  back  just  as  soon  as  possible." 

Once  more  he  kissed  her,  saying: 

"Mother'll  be  brave,  won't  she?" 

He  got  his  answer  from  her  eyes,  as  they  looked 
up  into  his;  for  she  could  not  utter  a  word.  He 
understood,  however,  all  that  she  would  say,  and 
hurried  out.  As  he  took  the  reins  from  Si,  he 
said: 

"Better  keep  still,  Si.  Say  nothing  unless  I  tell 
you  to.  You  might  go  in  to  see  if  there  is  anything 
you  can  do  to  help  Mrs.  Warren.  Better  stay  in- 
side, anyway,  Si;  she  may  be  nervous." 

Si  nodded.  One  word  from  the  Doctor  was 
enough.  All  who  knew  him  loved  him  too  well  not 
to  carry  out  his  wishes,  and  Si  was  no  exception. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  PICTURE'S  BACKGROUND 

MARGARET  HOLWAY  was  the  only 
daughter  of  Nathan  Holway,  Presi- 
dent of  the  First  National  Bank  in 
the  City  of  Ripley.    The  year  follow- 
ing her  graduation  from  High  School  she  went  to 
visit  her  uncle's  family  in  Longhaven;   and  during 
that  visit,  she  met  for  the  first  time  Hunt  M.  War- 
ren, a  young  medical  student  from  Boston  Univer- 
sity, who,  for  the  summer  with  other  college  boys, 
was  acting  in  the  capacity  of  waiter  at  one  of  the 
large  hotels  in  Longhaven. 

The  friendship  there  formed  ripened  in  the 
years  to  come ;  and,  not  long  after  his  own  gradu- 
ation, young  Dr.  Warren  went  to  Ripley,  not  on  a 
visit  as  he  had  done  several  times  during  the  past 
two  years,  but  to  claim  Margaret  Holway  for  his 
wife. 

Dr.  Warren  was  seven  years  older  than  Mar- 
garet, and  that  seven  years  served  well  to  bind 
them  all  the  more  closely  together.  They  helped 
him  to  be  not  only  lover,  but  elder  brother,  com- 
panion, counseler,  guide.  He  seemed  to  be  every- 
thing that  was  needed  to  complete  her  life,  mak- 
ing of  her  an  all-round  developed  type  of  noble 
womanhood;  but  it  was  not  the  years  alone  that 
did  this  for  her.  She  loved  the  man  with  all  her 

16 


THE  PICTURE'S  BACKGROUND     17 

heart  and  he  loved  her;  furthermore,  the  sweet 
friendship  and  trust  that  each  heart  had  in  the 
other  bound  their  lives  together  in  a  way  that 
would  have  tended  to  bring  out  the  best  in  each 
regardless  of  years. 

Margaret  Holway's  most  intimate  girl  friend 
from  childhood,  Mabel  Fairbanks,  had  been 
bridesmaid  at  the  wedding,  and  Clifford  Illsley,  the 
best  man.  During  the  evening  many  eyes  rested  on 
these  two  friends,  and  more  than  one  guest  re- 
marked that  Mabel  and  Clifford  would  soon  fol- 
low in  the  way  that  Margaret  and  the  Doctor  had 
led.  Something,  however,  no  one  seemed  to  know 
what,  happened.  Clifford  suddenly  left  Ripley, 
and  so  far  as  any  one  knew,  left  no  clew  behind 
him.  At  first  the  people  were  curious,  but  as  time 
went  on,  their  curiosity  ebbed  until  finally  his  name 
was  rarely  mentioned  in  the  community. 

After  their  marriage,  Dr.  Warren  and  his  wife 
settled  in  the  village  of  Woodrow,  and,  in  spite 
of  her  new  happiness  and  the  joys  of  her  new 
home,  she  never  let  a  week  pass  without  writing  to 
her  old  friend,  Mabel,  telling  her  of  the  place,  the 
people,  and  always  of  the  Doctor.  When  summer 
came,  a  letter  went  containing  more  than  that.  It 
carried  a  most  urgent  invitation  to  her  friend  to 
visit  them  in  their  new  home. 

"Couldn't  Aunt  Peabody  come  to  look  out  for 
your  mother,  and  Em  and  Hallie  do  the  work  for 
just  one  month?"  Margaret  wrote. 

Mabel  longed  to  go.     Although  it  seemed  im- 


i8  THE  PROBLEM 

possible,  she  read  and  re-read  her  friend's  letter. 
She  meant  to  enjoy  the  thought,  if  not  all  that  the 
thought  conveyed.  Her  mother  had  grown  so  de- 
pendent on  her,  she  scarcely  dared  suggest  such  a 
thing  as  leaving  her  for  a  whole  month.  The  girl 
slept  over  it;  she  dreamed  over  it;  and  the  next 
morning,  as  she  brushed  and  braided  her  mother's 
heavy,  wavy  hair,  now  more  than  half  gray,  she 
spoke  of  Margaret's  letter,  of  the  invitation,  and 
added : 

"But  I  wouldn't  think  of  leaving  you  dear,  un- 
less you  were  willing;  you  know  I  wouldn't, — be- 
sides, we  don't  even  know  that  Aunt  Peabody  could 
come." 

"I  never  thought  of  her  before,"  said  the  moth- 
er. "She  was  always  handy  round,  and  I  know, 
Mabel,  you  ought  to  have  the  rest ;  and  more  than 
that,  the  change.  It  would  do  you  a  world  of 
good.  How  I  would  like  to  see  Margaret  myself ! 
What  is  this,  the  middle  of  June?" 

"The  1 8th,  mother." 

"Well,  you  write  to  Aunt  Peabody.  We'll  see 
what  she  says." 

"Just  as  you  say.  Do  you  really  think  I  better, 
mother?"  Mabel  asked,  cautiously,  and  yet  hope- 
fully. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  came  the  genuine  response. 

It  seemed  to  Mabel  that  she  had  never  seen  a 
happier  moment.  After  getting  her  mother's  pil- 
lows adjusted,  and  her  chair  wheeled  up  to  the 
window,  where  its  occupant  could  look  out  on  the 


THE  PICTURE'S  BACKGROUND     19 

high  school  tennis  court  and  watch  the  boys  and 
girls  at  play,  Mabel  left  her.  Before  a  half  hour 
had  passed,  she  had  followed  her  mother's  sugges- 
tion and  written  to  "Aunt  Peabody,"  one  of  those 
dear  old  souls  who  is  "Aunt"  to  everybody  and 
blood  relation  to  nobody. 

Anxiously,  Mabel  waited  for  her  answer.  It 
was  three  days  in  reaching  her,  but  to  her  delight 
it  said,  "Yes." 

When  M<.bel  had  finished  reading  the  welcome 
epistle  to  her  mother,  the  latter  said : 

"I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  ever  get  along  with- 
out my  own  sweet  nurse,  but — if  that  nurse  should 
get  sick,  I  would  be  even  worse  off,  so  we  had  bet- 
ter not  run  the  risk.  You  just  go  and  have  the  best 
play  time  of  your  life,  and  the  only  one  you  have 
had  for — how  long  has  it  been,  dear,  two  years?" 

"Two  and  a  half,  mother." 

"So  it  has.  You  see,  dear,  you  have  made  it 
so  pleasant  for  me  that  the  time  has  not  seemed  so 
long.  Now,  isn't  that  a  compliment?" 

"The  best  compliment  I  ever  had,  mother,  dear, 
and  so  sweet  of  you  to  give  it,"  answered  Mabel, 
as  she  gave  her  the  morning  paper  and  left  a  kiss 
on  both  her  cheeks. 


CHAPTER  III 
MABEL'S  VISIT 

WOODROW  was  six  miles  from  the 
nearest  railroad  station.  When  Ma- 
bel arrived,  Margaret  was  there,  with 
a  neat  open-backed  buggy  and  Nell, 
the  Doctor's  little  bay  mare,  so  dappled  and  shin- 
ing that  one  could  almost  stand  by  her  side  and  see 
his  own  reflection.  Mabel,  however,  did  not  care 
to  see  hers  just  then;  for  she  knew  very  well  that 
her  hat  was  askew,  her  face  specked  with  coal 
dust,  and  her  hair  topsy-turvy;  besides,  Margaret 
was  there — her  own  old  Margaret. 

When  greetings  were  over,  Margaret  said: 

"The  buggy  was  not  big  enough  to  allow  three 
to  ride  comfortably;  and  then,  Hunt  said  he  knew 
us  well  enough  to  know  that  we  needed  to  be  left 
alone  for  a  little  while  to  get  some  of  our  talk 
out  so  he  would  have  a  chance  to  get  a  word  in 
edgewise." 

"He  has  seen  us  before,  I  guess,"  Mabel  laughed 
back,  as  she  helped  tuck  a  large  extension  case  into 
the  buggy;  after  which,  the  two  women,  so  over- 
joyed at  seeing  each  other,  started  on. 

When  about  half  the  distance  had  been  covered, 
Mabel  exclaimed 

"And  is  this  Woodrow?" 

Admiration  was  wrapped  up  in  each  word,  and 

20 


MABEL'S  VISIT  21 

even  in  the  tone  itself.  Margaret  noticed  it,  and 
asked  with  feeling: 

"Do  you  wonder  that  I  love  it?" 

"I  fear  I  should  not  think  much  of  your  judg- 
ment if  you  did  not  love  it,"  Mabel  answered. 
"Look,  look  at  those  hills!  O,  stop  the  horse, 
Margaret,  please  do!" 

Margaret  drew  the  reins  up  tightly,  saying  as 
sweetly  as  to  a  person,  "Whoa,  Nellie." 

For  a  moment,  Mabel  was  simply  speechless; 
and  then  she  pointed  to  the  western  sky,  so  gorge- 
ous in  its  golden  glory,  so  radiant  in  its  pinks  and 
reds  and  yellows  that  she  wondered  what  the  an- 
gels had  done.  Had  they  used  all  the  colors  in 
God's  rainbow  in  painting  the  sky  that  night,  or 
had  they  spilled  the  several  shades  and  God  him- 
self taken  the  restless  running  mass,  and  with  one 
stroke  of  that  Master  hand  made  a  painting  so 
beautiful  that  with  it  no  Corot  could  for  one  mo- 
ment compare. 

"Margaret!  Margaret,  do  you  come  here  of- 
ten?" she  gasped. 

"As  often  as  I  wish,"  was  the  reply,  "or  I  mean 
I  can  come  if  I  choose,  but  some  times  I  want  to 
go  to  other  places.  This  is  only  one  of  the  many, 
you  know." 

"Well,  we'll  go,"  said  Mabel  with  a  sigh  and 
another  sweeping  glance  taking  in  what  seemed 
to  her  the  most  beautiful  picture  she  had  ever 
seen. 

Margaret  started  Nell  along,  but  Mabel,   in 


22  THE  PROBLEM 

spite  of  their  talking  kept  looking  to  right  and  left. 
She  saw  such  beautiful  hills  and  trees  and  valleys 
with  here  and  there  little  glimpses  of  the  river's 
sparkling  water  that  it  all  seemed  like  a  dream 
to  her. 

"O,  Margaret,"  she  exclaimed  at  last.  "How 
can  you  help  being  happy  here?" 

"I  do  not  help  it,  dear.  I  am  happy,  so  tre- 
mendously happy  that  my  cup  ran  over,  and  I  sent 
for  you  to  help  sup  it  with  me  lest  some  of  it 
should  go  to  waste,"  Margaret  replied,  as  she  took 
the  reins  in  one  hand  and  reached  the  other  over 
to  take  one  of  Mabel's,  as  she  had  done  hundreds 
of  times  in  the  past. 

As  they  drew  near  to  the  village,  Mabel  said: 

"Let  me  see  if  I  can  guess  which  place  is  yours. 
I  bet  I  can,"  she  added,  enthusiastically. 

"All  right.  You'll  know,  though,"  answered 
Margaret,  laughingly. 

"How?" 

"Wait— you'll  see." 

She  had  scarcely  finished  speaking  when  Nell 
of  her  own  accord  pricked  up  her  ears,  quickened 
her  pace,  and  then,  gracefully  bowing  her  neck 
and  turning  toward  the  buildings  on  the  right, 
gave  one  hearty  snort  and  carried  them  through 
the  big  open  doorway  into  the  stable. 

Dr.  Warren,  knowing  what  Nell  would  do, 
was  already  there  to  meet  them.  He  lifted  Mar- 
garet from  the  carriage  and  kissed  her;  and  then 
helped  Mabel  down. 


MABEL'S  VISIT  23 

"Kiss  her,  too,"  said  Margaret.  "She  was  my 
sister,  you  know,  and  now  she  belongs  to  both  of 
us." 

Thus,  the  great  big  hearted  boy  and  manly, 
true  hearted  friend  kissed  Mabel  as  a  brother 
would  have  done. 

The  tired,  worn  out  city  girl  could  never  forget 
the  days  that  followed,  during  which  time  she 
drove  with  her  friends  over  hill  after  hill,  some- 
times over  a  long,  winding  roadway,  above  which 
the  branches  on  both  sides  stretched  until  they  met 
and  passed  each  other  with  friendly  smile,  as  the 
soft  rays  of  the  sun  streamed  down  through  leaf 
and  branch,  giving  to  the  passerby  a  most  cordial 
welcome.  This  scene  ever  held  a  fixed  and  faithful 
picture  in  Mabel's  mind;  and,  during  the  winter 
months  that  followed,  she  often  found  herself 
forming  a  mental  picture  of  that  country  road, 
with  its  bare  trees,  the  snow-clad  fields,  and 
imagined  what  the  ride  would  be  like  then,  when 
there  was  no  shade,  and  no  wealth  of  green  on 
every  side.  Again,  she  pictured  it  after  a  storm, 
when  each  branch  and  bole  bore  its  weight  of 
fleecy  flakes,  or  glistened  and  glittered  under  the 
rays  of  a  winter's  sun. 

It  was  over  this  same  road  eight  years  later  that 
Doctor  Warren  was  called  to  drive  on  that  morn- 
ing when  our  story  opens,  and  it  was  over  this 
same  road,  out  on  a  farm,  that  Mrs.  Munson  lived, 
whom  the  Doctor  was  called  to  see  when,  hidden 
in  his  carriage,  he  found  little  Willa. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WILLA'S  RECEPTION 

DR.  WARREN,  on  returning  from  his 
visit  to  Mrs.  Munson  on  that  particular 
morning,  found  his  wife  sitting  beside 
the  little  cradle  in  which  lay  their  un- 
expected "gift."  That  cradle  had  been  in  an  un- 
used room  up  stairs  since  their  own  baby  girl  had 
been  taken  from  them ;  and,  when  the  Doctor  saw 
it,  and  saw,  too,  on  a  table  nearby,  a  basket  filled 
with  tiny  clothes,  he  knew  the  struggle  his  wife 
had  undergone  since  his  departure.  As  she  rose  to 
meet  him,  he  folded  her  in  his  arms,  saying : 

"Brave  little  mother!  You  have  done  just 
right." 

To  know  that  her  husband  approved  was  hap- 
piness to  her  at  any  time,  and  just  now  his  words 
were  especially  comforting. 

He  soon  learned  that  his  wife  had  eaten  no 
breakfast,  but  had  waited  for  him  to  join  her  on 
his  return.  The  truth  is,  neither  one  had  much 
of  an  appetite.  After  sipping  their  coffee,  and 
talking  over  the  problem  before  them,  Dr.  Warren 
took  from  his  pocket  the  letter  and  read  it  aloud  to 
his  wife. 

"Now,  the  question,"  he  said  calmly,  "is  what 
shall  or  should  we  do?" 

"It  seems  more  like  a  dream,  Hunt,  than  any- 
24 


WILLA'S  RECEPTION  25 

thing  else.    While  you  were  gone,  I  wondered  if  I 
were  really  awake,"  answered  Mrs.  Warren. 

"But  I  don't  know  whether  to  open  that  other 
letter  or  not,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "The  plea  of 
the  mother  seems  to  have  such  a  genuine  ring  in  it 
that  to  do  so  seems  almost  like  betraying  a  trust; 
besides,  it  is  not  mine.  It  is  marked  to  the  child. 
And  yet,  if  it  were  a  case  of  deception,  it  would 
be  right  to  open  it." 

"Yes,  but  how  are  we  to  know?"  she  asked. 

"That's  the  question." 

"Let's  read  the  letter  again  to  see  if  we  can 
find  a  clue,"  suggested  his  wife. 

Again  the  letter  was  read,  and  for  several  mo- 
ments afterward,  both  were  silent.  At  last  he  said : 

"Did  you  find  any?" 

"No — but  isn't  it  sad?" 

"Shall  we  believe  what  she  has  said?"  he  asked. 

"I  had  rather  trust  than  doubt  at  any  time, 
hadn't  you?"  asked  his  wife. 

"Yes,  of  course;  besides,  it  is  only  right  to  have 
confidence  in  others  till  we  prove  them  unworthy 
of  that  confidence.  We  know  nothing  of  this 
mother;  then,  until  we  know  that  she  has  lied,  it 
seems  to  me  that  we  should  believe  she  has  told  the 
truth." 

"Then  shall  we  keep  the  child?" 

"The  mother  speaks  of  'giving'  her  to  us.  If 
she  has,  cannot  we  think  of  her  as  ours?  We  could 
learn  to  love  her,  couldn't  we  ?" 

"Learn  to  love  her!     Why,  Hunt,  I  love  her 


26  THE  PROBLEM 


now." 


"So  do  I,  Margaret." 

"Let's  go  in  and  look  at  her,"  said  Mrs.  War- 
ren. 

Together  they  went  into  the  room  where  the 
child  lay  asleep. 

"She  has  good  features,  hasn't  she?"  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"Unusually  good  for  a  child  so  young,  and  a 
good  shaped  head,  too.  Did  you  notice  that?" 

"Yes,  and  if  a  change  of  food  does  not  make 
her  sick  as  it  sometimes  does,  she  will  be  all  right." 

"The  top  of  her  head  is  bald,  but  down  low  in 
the  back  is  quite  a  lot  of  hair,  and  I  think  it  will 
be  light  and  curly,"  Mrs.  Warren  remarked. 

"Probably.     Her  eyes  are  blue." 

Thus  these  two  loyal  souls  stood  discussing  the 
new  arrival  from  head  to  foot.  If  she  had  been 
older,  and  conscious,  no  doubt  her  right  ear  would 
have  burned,  for  all  they  said  of  her  was  good; 
as  it  was,  she  lay  blissfully  unconscious  of  any 
change  in  her  surroundings. 

"But  the  neighbors,  did  you  think  of  them?" 
asked  Mrs.  Warren. 

"Yes;  they'll  be  mighty  curious,  but  what  of 
it?  We  three  are  the  only  ones  who  know  it.  Si 
won't  say  anything,  and  we  won't.  It's  no  one's 
business  now  but  ours,  so  let  them  wonder." 

"But  if  they  ask  whose  baby  she  is?" 

"We'll  say,  'She's  ours  now.'  She  is ;  you  know 
the  mother  said  'give.'  " 


WILLA'S  RECEPTION  27 

"But  that  won't  satisfy  them." 

"I  know  it  won't,  but  if  we  make  that  answer 
enough  times  they  will  grow  tired  of  asking.  I 
believe  they  are  all  true  enough  friends  to  us,  and 
have  confidence  enough  in  us  to  know  that  we  would 
not  have  her  unless  there  was  some  good  reason 
for  our  doing  so ;  as  time  goes  on,  they  will  learn 
to  respect  that  reason,  and  to  realize  that  we  con- 
sider it  our  own  personal  property." 

"Yes,  I  think  you  are  right.  They  would  be- 
lieve anything  that  you  told  them.  I  am  not  so 
sure  of  myself,"  answered  Mrs.  Warren. 

"Well,  I  am,"  replied  her  husband.  "You  know 
they  love  you." 

"No,  I  don't  know  it.  That's  the  trouble.  I 
know  they  like  me,  but  a  lot  of  times  I  think  it  is 
just  for  your  sake.  Everybody  loves  you,  but  I  am 
not  jealous.  I  should  be  cross  with  them  if  they 
didn't,"  replied  his  wife. 

"And  I  have  often  thought  that  they  loved  me 
for  your  sake.  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

But  Mrs.  Warren  did  not  have  time  to  answer; 
for  baby  Willa  called  them  in  regular  baby  fashion. 

The  Doctor  lifted  her  from  the  cradle  and 
passed  her  to  his  wife  who  had  reached  out  her 
arms  to  take  her. 

Then  Willa  enjoyed  her  second  breakfast  in  her 
new  home.  Both  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren  watched 
her  as  she  tugged  away  at  the  bottle  of  milk.  Wil- 
la evidently  enjoyed  every  drop  taken.  She  worked 
so  hard  that  the  drops  of  perspiration  stood  in 


28  THE  PROBLEM 

drops  on  her  little  forehead.  At  last,  when  her 
hunger  was  relieved,  she  let  the  rubber  slip  from 
her  mouth,  and  looked  around  her.  In  a  moment 
her  eyes  rested  on  both  her  new  friends ;  and  when 
they  did,  a  little  smile  came  to  her  lips.  Although 
they  knew  she  was  not  old  enough  to  realize  what 
she  was  doing,  they  were  glad  to  see  this  first  in- 
dication of  a  happy  disposition. 

At  that  moment,  the  bell  rang.  Baby  Willa 
gave  a  little  start,  but  she  did  not  cry. 

Another  call  had  come  for  the  Doctor;  and,  as 
he  stepped  into  the  carriage,  he  turned  to  Si  with 
the  words: 

"You  may  as  well  know,  Si,  first  as  last,  that 
we  are  going  to  keep  the  child  as  the  mother  re- 
quested us  to.  If  anyone  asks  you  whose  child  she 
is,  simply  say  that  she  is  ours  now.  She  is.  Furth- 
er than  that,  you  need  to  know  nothing.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"You  can  trust  me,  Doctor,"  answered  the  faith- 
ful helper. 

"I  know  it,  Si.  If  I  didn't,  I  shouldn't  have  told 
you  this  much." 

"I  am  glad  you  are  going  to  keep  her.  She'll 
be  a  sight  o'  company  for  Mrs.  Warren,"  an- 
swered Si. 

"You  had  better  go  in  while  I  am  gone  as  you 
did  before.  She  may  need  something." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Si,  who,  as  soon  as  the  car- 
riage drove  away,  did  as  the  Doctor  had  requested 
and  went  into  the  house  to  see  if  he  could  be  of 


WILLA'S  RECEPTION  29 

service  either  to  his  old  or  his  new  mistress. 

Si's  leaving  the  stable  permitted  another  scene 
to  be  enacted.  On  a  loose  scafiold  above  the  spot 
where  he  and  the  Doctor  had  stood,  hidden  behind 
a  clump  of  hay,  lay  Willa's  mother.  Breathlessly, 
she  had  listened  to  every  word  uttered  by  the  two 
men.  Her  heart  leaped  with  joy  when  she  heard 
the  earnest,  sincere  tones  of  Dr.  Warren,  and  re- 
alized that  her  prayer  was  answered. 

Now,  she  felt  her  chance  had  come.  She  had 
feared  she  might  have  to  stay  there  all  day.  Before 
starting,  however,  she  drew  from  her  pocket  a 
crumpled  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil.  In  a  few 
moments  she  wrote,  briefly: 

"Dear  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren: 

"Again  I  trespass  on  your  good  nature,  but  you 
must  understand  a  mother's  love  well  enough  to 
forgive  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  could  not  leave 
my  baby  until  I  was  sure  of  the  verdict.  I,  there- 
fore, ran  the  risk  of  hiding  on  your  scaffold.  I 
have  just  heard  Dr.  Warren  tell  his  servant  that 
you  are  to  keep  the  child.  God  only  knows  what 
those  words  meant  to  me.  May  He  bless  you  al- 
ways, and  may  Willa  prove  a  blessing  to  you  both. 
I  shall  die  now  knowing  that  my  little  girl  is  safe. 

"WILLA'S  MOTHER." 

After  folding  the  note,  the  woman  drew  from 
her  belt  a  stout  pin  with  which  she  fastened  the 
note  to  a  rafter. 


30  THE  PROBLEM 

As  soon  as  this  was  done,  she  came  down  the 
rough  steps,  slipped  out  through  a  back  door  which 
led  to  the  hen  yard,  and  thence  into  the  field  be- 
yond. She  had  come  as  if  by  magic,  and  she  left 
in  the  same  way, — that  is  for  all  anyone  in  Wood- 
row  knew. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  day,  however,  that  Si 
found  the  mother's  message,  and  when  he  did,  the 
words,  "By  crackers!"  came  from  his  lips  as  be- 
fore. He  at  once  thought  of  his  other  surprise, 
and  connected  the  two;  but,  showing  more  honor 
than  some  in  his  place  would  have  done,  he  put 
the  note  in  his  pocket  unread,  awaiting  the  return 
of  the  Doctor.  He  would  have  taken  the  note  to 
Mrs.  Warren,  but  feared  it  might  contain  some- 
thing of  a  startling  nature.  The  Doctor's  con- 
stant solicitude  for  his  wife  made  Si  thoughtful, 
too.  The  man  did  not  have  to  wait  long,  how- 
ever, for  the  sound  of  wheels  was  soon  heard.  Si's 
face  told  the  Doctor  at  once  that  something  had 
happened. 

"I  found  this,  Doctor,  pinned  to  a  rafter  in  the 
stable.  I  thought  maybe  it  might  tell  something, 
you  know,"  Si  said  as  he  passed  up  the  note. 

The  Doctor  hastily  read  the  message  written  the 
day  before,  after  which  he  walked  slowly  into  the 
house,  and  passed  the  note  to  his  wife. 

"What  do  you  think,  now?"  he  asked,  as  she  let 
the  letter  fall  in  her  lap. 

"I  feel  surer  than  ever  that  she  told  the  truth 
before,"  said  Mrs.  Warren. 


WILLA'S  RECEPTION  31 

"Why?" 

"Because  she  has  now  proven  that  she  had  a 
real  mother's  heart  by  running  the  risk  of  being 
found  rather  than  leave  her  child  to  an  uncer- 
tainty." 

"Little  philosopher!"  exclaimed  the  Doctor. 

Again,  they  both  looked  at  the  child  that,  for 
all  that  knew  now,  was  to  grow  up  as  their  own, 
the  child  that  from  this  time  on  should  be  called 
Willa  Warren;  in  fact,  they  knew  of  no  other 
name  by  which  to  call  her. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  NEIGHBORS 

"  -w-  AND  sakes,  Mrs.  Brown,  I  do  believe 
Mrs.  Warren  is  never  goin'  ter  git  over 
the  losin'  o'  that  little  girl  of  her'n.  I've 

P  Vhpsrrl  how  that  once  every  so  often  she 
goes  and  gits  out  all  her  little  clothes  and  looks  at 
'em  and  cries  and  cries,  though  she's  always  cheer- 
ful like  when  I  sees  her ;  but  just  now  as  I  come  past 
I  sees  a  lot  of  little  clothes  out  on  the  line.  I  s'pose 
she  washes  'em  once  in  a  while  to  keep  'em  from 
yellowin',  don't  you?" 

Mrs.  Lindsey  had  "dropped  in"  to  make  a  call 
on  Mrs.  Brown,  whose  house  she  had  to  pass  on 
her  way  to  the  store.  As  Mrs.  Lindsey  talked,  she 
wiped  the  drops  of  perspiration  from  her  face,  and 
then  picked  up  a  newspaper  that  lay  in  a  chair  near- 
by, and  began  to  fan  herself. 

On  the  floor  at  her  right  sat  a  four  quart  basket, 
made  by  real  Indians  who  had  camped  over  at  one 
edge  of  Woodrow  the  winter  before,  and  in  the 
basket  were  three  dozen  fresh  eggs  which  she  was 
taking  to  the  store  to  exchange  for  some  print, 
preparatory  to  lining  a  new  quilt  she  had  just 
pieced. 

Mrs.  Brown  listened  to  her  neighbor's  discus- 
sion of  Mrs.  Warren,  the  baby  that  was  dead,  and 
the  clothes  now  on  the  line.  She  scarcely  knew 


THE  NEIGHBORS  33 

what  answer  to  make.  She  knew  very  well  why 
those  clothes  were  on  the  line;  she  knew  of  the 
baby  girl  now  at  the  Doctor's,  and  she  herself  had 
seen  the  child.  She  also  knew  how  much  her 
caller  would  enjoy  having  this  piece  of  news  to 
carry  with  her.  No  one  in  the  town  feasted  more 
on  other  people's  affairs  than  did  Mrs.  Lindsey; 
and,  the  more  exciting  the  piece  of  news,  the  great- 
er her  enjoyment  of  it.  She  would  twist  the  mat- 
ter around  under  her  tongue  like  a  sweet  morsel 
that  must  be  thoroughly  chewed  and  mixed  with 
the  saliva  of  her  own  opinion  in  order  to  be 
thoroughly  digested.  Sometimes,  mental  Fletch- 
erizing  is  good  for  one,  but  seldom  when  prac- 
ticed on  food  belonging  to  one's  neighbors.  Mrs. 
Brown,  realizing  this,  resolved  that  she  herself 
would  not  be  the  one  to  spread  the  news;  and, 
consequently,  replied: 

"I  do  not  wonder  she  feels  the  loss.  I  never 
saw  a  sweeter  child  than  little  Angie." 

"Well,  I  never  seen  her  but  onct,  and  that  was 
at  the  fun'ral.  She  looked  jist  like  a  little  wax 
doll,  then,"  answered  Mrs.  Lindsey. 

"You  see  we  live  nearer  than  you,  and  I  used  to 
see  her  often.  I  think  the  loss  of  her  has  been  as 
big  a  blow  to  the  Doctor  as  to  his  wife,"  said  Mrs. 
Brown. 

"Well,  he  al'ays  did  love  children.  I  knew  if 
they  ever  hed  one  o'  their  own,  he'd  love  it  to 
death,"  replied  her  caller. 

"God  knows  best,  of  course;    but  sometimes, 


34  THE  PROBLEM 

when  I  have  thought  of  their  case,  I  could  not  help 
thinking  of  the  Jefferson  family.  They  had  their 
eleventh  one  the  same  year  Angie  was  born,  and  all 
that  winter  they  did  not  have  more  than  half 
enough  to  eat,  nor  clothes  enough  to  keep  them 
warm,  and  yet  every  one  of  them  lived  through  it. 
They  are  always  well  in  spite  of  their  poverty  and 
dirt." 

"I  know  it  and  that  beats  me.  I'se  speakin'  to 
my  man  'bout  that  very  thing  only  yisterday,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Lindsey. 

Mrs.  Lindsey  invariably  spoke  of  her  husband, 
Tom,  as  "my  man."  Why  she  could  not  say,  "my 
husband,"  or  "Tom,"  or  "Mr.  Lindsey,"  Mrs. 
Brown  could  never  understand,  and  while  she  was 
thinking  of  it,  her  neighbor  only  emphasized  the 
thought  by  saying: 

"Well,  I  must  be  trottin'  on,  or  I  won't  be 
home  in  time  to  git  my  man's  dinner." 

As  she  went  down  over  the  steps  of  Mrs. 
Brown's  house,  the  latter  said : 

"If  you  will  call  on  your  way  back,  you  may  fill 
your  basket  with  apples.  They  are  getting  real 
good  for  pies  and  sauce.  We  have  used  them  for 
a  week,  now." 

"O,  thanks!  I'd  like  ter  have  some.  My  man 
said  last  night  he  wished  we  had  an  apple  tree." 

"The  wind  yesterday  took  off  a  lot,  and  you  can 
have  some  as  well  as  not." 

"Then  I'll  be  in  on  my  way  back.  Good-by,  Mrs. 
Brown." 


THE  NEIGHBORS  35 

The  house  sat  about  four  rods  from  the  road, 
and  before  Mrs.  Lindsey  had  reached  the  turn,  she 
called  back  to  her  neighbor,  "There  ain't  no  errand 
at  the  store  that  I  kin  do  fer  you,  is  there?" 

"Why,  no,  I — yes,  there  is,  too.  Just  a  minute," 
answered  Mrs.  Brown,  who  ran  into  the  house  and 
came  back  with  a  nickel. 

"I  do  want  a  spool  of  number  100  thread,  white, 
and  if  you  will  get  it,  it  will  save  my  going  down." 

"I  thought  maybe  there  might  be  somethin'  and 
it  would  save  you  a  goin',"  replied  Mrs.  Lindsey. 

Mrs.  Brown  said  to  herself,  as  her  neighbor 
went  out  of  the  yard: 

"An  awful  good  hearted  woman,  poor  soul,  but 
awful  newsy.  That's  her  one  failing.  I'm  glad  I 
thought  about  the  apples.  They  will  enjoy  them. 
I  wonder  what  time  it  is."  As  she  said  the  last 
words,  she  stepped  into  the  dining-room  to  look  at 
the  new  clock  of  which  she  was  very  proud.  When 
she  found  that  it  was  already  10:15,  she  thought 
of  her  bread,  and  noticed  that  it  was  raised,  all 
ready  for  the  oven.  She  removed  the  snow  white 
towel  with  which  it  was  covered,  and  one  by  one 
gently  placed  the  tins  within  the  oven  and  closed 
the  door.  As  she  folded  the  towel  and  laid  it  on 
the  pantry  shelf,  she  said: 

"If  that  gets  baked  by  the  time  Mrs.  Lindsey 
comes,  I'll  give  her  a  loaf.  I  know  it  will  be  good 
and  it  will  be  a  change  for  her  and  Tom." 

Before  long,  the  loaves  were  baked  a  golden 
brown  and  looked  as  light  as  a  feather.  She  had 


36  THE  PROBLEM 

scarcely  placed  them  on  her  bread-board  and  cov- 
ered with  the  same  white  towel  when  Mrs.  Lind- 
sey's  step  was  heard  outside. 

"Sophia  Brown!  I  never  was  so  s'prised  in  my 
life,"  gasped  Mrs.  Lindsey. 

"Why,  what  has  happened,  Mrs.  Lindsey? 
You  look  scared." 

"No,  I  ain't  scared  none,  but  I  am  dum'  found- 
ed. Don't  you  remember  when  I'se  here  before, 
how  we  were  talking  'bout  Mrs.  Warren  an'  the 
baby  clothes?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I've  jist  found  out  there's  a  real  live  baby 
there — a  real  one." 

"What,  company?"  asked  Mrs.  Brown,  with  not 
a  note  in  her  voice  which  could  possibly  tell  Mrs. 
Lindsey  that  she  was  not  hearing  something  for 
the  first  time. 

"Company?  No,  but  a  baby  is  there,  so  Mrs. 
Little  jist  told  me  when  I  was  in  her  store;  and 
she  says  her  boy,  Jim,  seen  it  when  he  was  up 
there  last  night.  He  said,  'Why,  Mrs.  Warren, 
whose  baby  yer  got?'  and  she  said,  'She's  ours 
now,'  and  then  when  he  comes  out,  he  asked  Si  the 
same  thing,  and  Si  made  him  the  same  answer.  No- 
body knows  where  it  came  from,  nor  whose  it  is, 
nor  how  long  it's  goin'  to  stay,  nor  nothin'.  Did 
yer  ever  hear  the  likes  o'  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Lind- 
sey, as  she  stopped  to  get  breath. 

"Is  it  a  boy  or  girl?"  inquired  Mrs.  Brown, 
innocently. 


THE  NEIGHBORS  37 

"A  girl,  so  Jim  said." 

"Maybe  they've  adopted  it." 

"Maybe,  but,  my  land!  There  ain't  been  no 
babies  round  town  here  only  what  belonged  to 
folks,  and  we  know  every  one  of  them  anyhows, 
so  where  did  she  come  from?"  asked  Mrs.  Lind- 
sey,  who  acted  as  though  she  could  not  rest  until 
the  mystery  was  solved. 

"She  must  be  like  Topsy,  just  'grew,'  "  laughed 
Mrs.  Brown. 

"I  guess  she  must.  Mrs.  Little  said  she  was 
goin'  up  herself  this  afternoon  ter  see  it.  Jim 
said  Mrs.  Warren  sat  there  holdin'  it  jist  like  it 
was  Angie." 

"I  am  glad  if  she  has  one.  She  will  take  a  lot 
of  comfort  with  her." 

"Yes,  that's  right.  But  where  did  she  come 
from?  That's  what  puzzles  me,"  and  Mrs.  Lind- 
sey  reached  into  her  pocket  for  her  handkerchief, 
where  she  found  the  spool  of  thread  that  she  had 
bought  for  Mrs.  Brown. 

"Land  sakes!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  most  forgot 
yer  thread;  and  that  makes  me  think.  Mrs.  Lit- 
tle said,  when  she  found  out  I  was  gittin'  print  to 
line  my  quilt,  that  she  thought  I  ought  ter  hev  a 
quiltin'  and  hev  a  lot  o'  the  women  come  in  ter 
help  me.  She  thought  Thursday  would  be  a  good 
time.  Could  you  come  then?" 

"Thursday?  Yes,  I  think  I  could,"  answered 
Mrs.  Brown  slowly;  for,  she  was  revolving  in  her 
mind  the  reason  for  Mrs.  Little's  having  suggested 


38  THE  PROBLEM 

this  quilting,  and  could  not  help  thinking  it  might 
be  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  lot  of  the  neighbors 
together  to  see  what  could  be  learned  about  the  new 
comer  to  town.  However,  she  knew  that  feeling 
must  be  given  vent  to  at  some  time,  and  perhaps 
the  sooner  the  better.  At  any  rate,  she  would  be 
there,  and  perhaps  might  act  in  the  capacity  of  a 
bridle  to  the  tongues  of  some  of  her  neighbors. 

"Well,  then,  had  I  better  git  word  to  the  dif- 
ferent ones?  Do  you  think  they'll  come?"  asked 
Mrs.  Lindsey. 

"Why,  of  course,  they  will  come  if  they  can." 

"Then  I'll  call  an'  see  Mrs.  Perkins,  and  Miss 
Bolster,  and  when  my  man  comes  up  fer  the  mail 
to-night,  he  kin  see  a  lot  more.  I  must  hurry.  It 
must  be  after  eleven,  ain't  it?" 

"About  half  past,  I  think.  But  you  want  your 
apples.  You  can  fill  your  basket  out  of  that  pail, 
and  just  wait  a  minute,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  kindly. 

She  went  into  the  pantry  and  soon  reappeared 
with  a  loaf  of  her  newly  baked  bread,  neatly  wrap- 
ped in  a  clean,  fresh  paper. 

"I  thought  maybe  you  and  Mr.  Lindsey  would 
like  to  sample  some  of  my  new  bread  for  your  din- 
ner. It's  all  warm." 

"Well,  now,  Mrs.  Brown,  if  you  don't  beat 
everything  I  ever  see.  Now  you  ain't  robbin'  your- 
self, be  yer?" 

"No,  indeed.  I  baked  four.  I  hope  it  will  be 
good." 

"Good!     No  one  ever  seen  you  bake  none  that 


THE  NEIGHBORS  39 

wa'n't  good,"  answered  Mrs.  Lindsey,  little  realiz- 
ing what  a  doubtful  compliment  she  was  paying 
her  neighbor. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  QUILTING 

WHEN  Thursday  came,   Mrs.  Brown 
went  to  the  quilting,  not  so  much  be- 
cause she  really  wished  to  go,  but  be- 
cause    Woodrow     was     Woodrow, 
neighbors  were  neighbors,  and  she  would  not  think 
of  extending  such  a  slight  to  one  as  not  to  accept  an 
invitation  to  such  a  gathering;  besides,  she  felt  she 
might  be  needed. 

The  nine  women  present  all  lived  within  a  radius 
of  two  miles,  and  near  enough  to  the  village  of 
Woodrow  to  know  the  happenings  there.  When 
Mrs.  Brown  arrived,  the  quilt  was  in  the  frame  and 
spread  full  size  in  the  Lindsey  sitting-room,  or  par- 
lor, whichever  one  prefers  to  call  it;  for  it  served 
for  both,  in  fact  was  the  only  large  room  in  the 
house  except  the  kitchen.  As  she  entered  this 
room,  she  heard  the  words,  "very  mysterious,"  and 
at  once  guessed  the  topic  under  discussion.  Hav- 
ing prepared  herself  for  whatever  might  come,  she 
began  to  discuss  the  quilt,  some  of  the  pieces  in  it 
which  she  recognized  as  coming  from  a  dress  be- 
longing to  Grandma  Lindsey,  or  Mrs.  Tom  Lind- 
sey; she  also  found  various  patterns  that  had  once 
been  hers,  as  several  months  ago  she  had  given  her 
neighbor  a  lot  of  pieces.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was 
telling  them  about  the  first  quilting  she  ever  at- 

40 


THE  QUILTING  41 

tended,  and  relating  some  of  the  funny  things  that 
happened  there.  This  encouraged  those  present  to 
follow  her  example.  Others  arrived,  and  all  this 
time  only  general  conversation  was  enjoyed.  About 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Brown  was  si- 
lently congratulating  them  on  their  good  behaviour, 
and  thinking  that  perhaps  she  had  misjudged  her 
neighbors  after  all,  when  she  heard  the  sound  of 
wheels;  and,  looking  out,  saw  Dr.  Warren  drive 
by. 

"I  suppose  you  all  know  about  the  baby,  don't 
you?"  asked  Mrs.  Little. 

"Yes,"  and  "No,"  came  at  once,  the  latter  in 
tones  of  great  astonishment. 

"Why,  what  baby?"  came  from  those  who  had 
answered  in  the  negative. 

"You  haven't  heard  about  the  baby  they  have 
there?"  she  asked. 

"Who  has  there?  What  do  you  mean?"  asked 
Susan  Greely  and  Hannah  Bolster  in  the  same 
breath. 

"Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren,  of  course." 

"But  hers  died,"  replied  Susan,  "and  I  didn't 
know  she  was — " 

"She  wasn't,  but  this  has  just  come''  answered 
Mrs.  Little. 

"Come  from  where?"  continued  the  other. 

"That's  what  we  don't  know,  but  there's  the 
baby.  I  seen  her  myself  last  night,"  replied  Mrs. 
Little. 

"For  the  land  sakes!    How  big  is  she?"  asked 


42  THE  PROBLEM 

Mrs.  Plummer. 

"O,  'bout  two,  or  three  months,  wouldn't  you 
think  so  Mrs.  Brown,  or  ain't  you  seen  her?" 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  her,  and  she  is  a  dear,  isn't 
she?" 

"Yes,  she's  a  lovely  baby,  but  that  don't  tell 
us  where  she  came  from,  as  I  see,"  answered  the 
much  concerned  Mrs.  Little. 

"P'r'aps  some  o'  their  poor  relations  died  an' 
left  the  baby.  Prob'ly  they've  got  poor  relations 
like  all  the  rest  o'  us,"  suggested  Susan. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,  and  maybe  that's  why  they 
don't  want  ter  talk  about  it  for  fear  we'll  find  out 
it  came  from  a  poor  family,"  said  Mrs.  Lindsey 
in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  as  though  the  mystery  was 
solved. 

"I  don't  think  that  would  make  any  difference 
with  the  Doctor  and  I  don't  know  as  it  would  with 
his  wife.  They  never  was  no  kind  of  stuck-up 
folks,  you  know,  not  even  when  they  first  came 
here,"  remarked  Grammie  Beals. 

"That's  right.  You  never  see  them  looking 
down  on  nobody,  do  you?"  came  from  another. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Brown?  You 
live  nearer  than  any  the  rest  of  us.  Do  you  think 
it's  some  relation  of  theirs,  or  did  they  send  to 
some  orphan  home  or  somethin'  of  that  sort  for 
one  to  adopt  where  their'n  died?"  asked  Mrs.  Lit- 
tle. 

"I  am  sure  I  could  not  tell  you  because  I  do  not 
know,"  replied  Mrs.  Brown;  and  then,  seriously 


THE  QUILTING  43 

but  kindly,  she  added,  "to  tell  the  truth,  I  think  I 
had  just  as  soon  not  know  until  they  get  ready  to 
tell  me.  If  ever  I  knew  a  true  gentleman  and  lady, 
they  are  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren ;  and  I  have  a  pret- 
ty good  chance  to  know  them,  too.  Mrs.  Warren 
simply  said,  'She's  ours  now,'  and  knowing  her  as 
well  as  I  do,  I  knew  she  had  some  good,  solid  rea- 
son for  not  saying  more,  because  she  always  speaks 
very  freely  to  me.  Consequently,  until  she  gets 
ready  to  tell  me  that  reason,  I  shall  consider  that 
it  belongs  to  her,  not  to  me.  More  than  that,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  do  not  feel  that  it  is  any  of  my 
business.  I  just  know  there  is  some  good  reason 
for  their  having  her,  and  I  can't  be  thankful 
enough  that  she  is  there.  She  will  do  more  for 
Mrs.  Warren  than  all  the  medicine  in  the  world." 

"I'm  glad,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Little  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent tone  from  what  she  had  used  before. 

Mrs.  Brown  at  once  noticed  the  change,  and  ap- 
parently all  the  others  did  also,  for  in  another  mo- 
ment the  subject  was  changed  and  not  referred  to 
again  the  whole  afternoon. 

It  certainly  seemed  that  Mrs.  Brown's  words 
had  gone  home  to  the  heart  of  each  one  there, 
and  it  seemed  so  afterwards,  too;  for,  from  that 
time  on,  the  spirit  shown  by  her  seemed  to  per- 
vade all  Woodrow,  until  one  and  all  took  for 
granted  the  right  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren  to  the 
possession  of  Willa. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CHARACTER  REVEALED 

MRS.  BROWN  is  no  longer  the  nearest 
neighbor  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren. 
Si  Campbell,  who  for  several  years 
had  been  like  one  of  the  Warren  fam- 
ily, so  much  did  he  think  of  them  and  they  of  him, 
decided  that  he  would  prefer  a  home  of  his  own; 
and,  as  Hannah  Bolster  was  not  averse  to  changing 
her  name  to  Hannah  Campbell,  plans  for  the  wed- 
ding were  accordingly  made. 

The  Doctor's  house  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  ten 
acre  lot  and  next  to  the  village  of  Woodrow.  As 
he  felt  that  he  could  not  easily  replace  Si,  he 
and  his  wife  agreed  that  Si  better  put  up  a  neat  lit- 
tle house  on  the  lower  side  of  their  own  lot.  This 
plan  was  carried  out  and  the  house  built  during 
the  summer  that  Willa  was  three  years  old.  All 
through  those  months,  Willa's  chief  delight  was  to 
visit  the  new  house,  and  to  play  with  the  long, 
curly  shavings  which  seemed  to  be  everywhere.  She 
was  not  allowed  to  go  unless  Mrs.  Warren,  the 
Doctor,  or  Si  went  with  her,  but  with  three  people 
to  act  as  escort  Willa  found  many  opportunities 
for  visiting  this  scene  of  delight.  Nothing  seemed 
to  escape  her  attention ;  she  even  grew  to  feel  that 
the  workmen  could  scarcely  get  along  without  her; 
she  had  to  have  her  little  hammer  and  shingle  nails, 

44 


CHARACTER  REVEALED  45 

and  one  corner  of  the  place  was  called  hers. 

Day  after  day,  if  Si  were  there,  Willa  would 
spend  hours  picking  up  and  playing  with  the  "tun- 
nin'  'ittle  pieces,"  as  she  called  the  various  bits  of 
trimmings  which  came  off  and  were  scattered  about. 

There  was  scarcely  a  day  when  the  Doctor  did 
not  go  down  to  see  how  the  men  were  getting 
along,  and  one  day  in  particular  when  the  plaster- 
ing was  done  and  the  finish  being  put  on,  the  Doc- 
tor started  for  the  new  house  and  Willa  went  with 
him.  The  long  work-bench  was  in  one  of  the 
rooms;  shavings  of  every  description  were  scat- 
tered in  heaps  around  the  floor,  and  Willa  was 
soon  in  their  midst.  As  the  Doctor  and  the  work- 
men started  for  the  next  room  to  look  around,  the 
former  noticing  that  one  of  the  men  had  left  his 
knife  lying  open  on  the  bench,  turned  to  Willa, 
saying : 

"Don't  touch  the  knife,  Willa." 

"No,"  said  the  little  voice  that  had  grown  so 
dear  to  them,  but  the  injunction  given  simply 
served  as  a  suggestion  to  the  active  little  mind, 
which  before  that  time  had  not  been  conscious  of 
the  knife's  presence.  The  men  had  no  more  than 
gotten  out  of  sight  when,  childlike,  Willa  left  her 
shavings  and  went  to  inspect  the  forbidden  knife. 
The  "don't"  of  the  Doctor  was  at  once  forgotten; 
and,  wholly  unconscious  for  the  time  that  she  was 
disobeying,  the  child  picked  up  the  knife  so  bright 
and  shining,  turning  it  first  this  way  and  that,  un- 
til suddenly  the  blade  went  into  the  soft  baby  flesh 


46  THE  PROBLEM 

on  one  of  her  little  thumbs.  It  did  not  go  deep, 
but  deep  enough  to  bring  Willa  to  her  senses.  Al- 
though it  hurt,  no  cry  came  from  her.  She  care- 
fully replaced  the  knife  but  that  was  much  easier 
than  replacing  her  peace  of  mind;  for,  never  be- 
fore had  she  deliberately  disobeyed  the  Doctor, 
whom  she  loved  better  than  anyone  else  in  all  the 
world.  She  loved  Mrs.  Warren  dearly,  but  she 
almost  reverenced  her  "papa."  Never  had  there 
been  a  jar  between  them.  It  was  enough  for  her 
at  any  time  to  know  that  "papa  wants  baby  do 
this,"  or  "not  do  this,"  as  the  case  might  be. 

As  she  saw  a  few  drops  of  blood  coming  from 
the  cut,  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes  and  rolled  down 
her  cheeks,  although  no  sound  accompanied  them. 
It  being  her  left  thumb  that  was  cut,  she  reached 
with  her  right  hand  into  her  apron  pocket,  and  drew 
out  her  Christmas  handkerchief,  which  had  a  col- 
ored border  consisting  of  dogs's  and  children's 
heads,  and  which  to  Willa  seemed  very  beautiful 
indeed.  She  wrapped  her  wounded  thumb  in  this, 
after  which  she  tucked  the  thumb  into  the  palm  of 
her  hand,  and  shut  her  four  fat  fingers  over  it. 
When  the  Doctor  and  the  workmen  returned,  Wil- 
la's  gaiety  was  gone.  However,  the  men  and  he 
were  so  taken  up  with  plans  for  the  house  that  no 
one  noticed  the  change  in  the  little  lady's  mood. 
The  Doctor  started  home  and  Willa  followed.  As 
pieces  of  boards,  stones,  and  other  debris  had  to  be 
climbed  over,  the  Doctor  reached  to  take  Willa 
by  the  hand  lest  she  fall;  but,  quick  as  a  flash, 


CHARACTER  REVEALED  4? 

Willa  leaped  to  the  other  side  and  slipped  her  right 
hand  into  his.  Thinking  she  was  unusually  quiet 
for  her,  the  big  man  said  kindly: 

"Didn't  Papa  stay  long  enough,  or  didn't  Willa 
have  a  good  time?" 

There  was  no  answer  from  Willa.  She  dared 
not  trust  herself  to  speak.  A  great  lump  was  in 
her  throat,  and  try  as  she  would,  she  could  not 
swallow  it. 

She  was  bareheaded,  and  with  no  hat  to  shade 
her  face,  the  Doctor  had  a  better  chance  to  study 
her  expression;  and,  knowing  her  as  he  did,  he 
was  sure  that  something  was  troubling  her.  From 
babyhood,  he  had  sought  to  have  her  confidence, 
and  he  had  always  succeeded.  He  must  not  fail 
now.  Suddenly,  he  saw  the  tears  trickling  down 
her  cheeks,  and  he  tried  again : 

"Willa  isn't  sick,  is  she?" 

A  shake  of  her  head  was  her  only  answer.  The 
tender  tone,  however,  of  the  Doctor  made  it  hard- 
er and  harder  to  hold  in.  They  were  nearly  to 
their  own  house,  and  the  Doctor,  knowing  that, 
whatever  the  trouble  might  be,  he  would  more 
quickly  learn  the  nature  of  it  if  they  were  alone, 
directed  their  steps  toward  the  summer  house 
where  were  rocking  chairs  and  Willa's  swing.  One 
of  her  chief  delights  was  to  have  her  papa  sit  in 
her  swing  while  she  pushed  it,  and  he  thought  pos- 
sibly by  having  a  little  play  with  her,  she  might 
become  herself  once  more.  They  were  just  climb- 
ing the  steps  of  this  shady  retreat  when  Willa  broke 


48  THE  PROBLEM 

down  and  cried  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  sat  down  in  one  of 
the  easy  chairs.  With  her  right  hand  she  took  the 
bottom  of  her  apron  to  wipe  the  tears  away,  but 
they  came  so  thick  and  fast  that  finally  the  Doctor 
had  to  take  his  own  handkerchief.  Tenderly  he 
dried  the  face  and  kissed  her  little  forehead,  say- ' 
ing: 

"Isn't  Willa  going  to  tell  papa  what  the  trouble 
is?  Willa  knows  papa  loves  her,  doesn't  she?" 

For  several  minutes,  heavy  sobs  were  his  only 
answer;  and  then,  cuddling  up  close  to  him  and 
throwing  both  arms  around  his  neck,  she  burst  out : 

"Willa  naughty,"  and,  as  though  fearful  lest  the 
realization  of  this  might  separate  them,  she  drew 
her  arms  tighter  and  tighter  about  his  neck  and 
tucked  her  own  face  up  close  to  his. 

The  Doctor  was  a  man  of  sufficient  thought  and 
sense  to  realize  what  those  two  words  had  cost 
Willa;  and  to  realize,  too,  that  no  harder  battle 
is  fought  by  men  and  women  to-day  than  the  one 
which  had  just  been  fought  by  this  little  girl,  and 
he  felt  that  she  had  come  off  victorious. 

Never  had  he  been  so  proud  of  her,  and  never 
had  he  appreciated  her  true  worth  more  than  at 
that  moment.  He  drew  his  strong  arms  closer 
about  her,  and  said  in  his  tenderest  tones : 

"Tell  papa  about  it.  Papa  never  scolds  you, 
does  he?" 

A  shake  of  her  head  was  all  the  answer  she 
could  make,  and  a  sigh  which  shook  her  whole 


CHARACTER  REVEALED  49 

frame  accompanied  that. 

"Then  sit  down  on  papa's  knee  and  tell  him  all 
about  it,  won't  you?" 

This  time  she  nodded  and  another  sigh  came. 

"That's  a  little  lady,"  he  said,  encouragingly, 
and  he  could  see  that  she  was  slowly  getting  con- 
trol of  herself. 

Taking  her  from  his  shoulder,  he  placed  her  on 
his  knee  and  folded  his  arms  about  her.  After 
waiting  a  few  moments,  he  said: 

"Willa  ready  now?  What  was  Willa  naughty 
about?" 

"De  knife.  Papa  told  baby  not  tate  it.  Baby 
toot  it.  Baby  tut  fum,"  and  she  held  it  up  for  his 
inspection. 

The  Doctor  could  scarcely  keep  from  smiling 
when  he  saw  how  Willa  had  shielded  it,  and  yet  he 
showed  no  signs  of  amusement  for  he  knew  that 
this  was  a  serious  time  in  Willa's  little  life,  and  one 
which  might  teach  her  many  lessons  in  days  to 
come. 

"And  baby  feels  sorry?"  he  asked,  kindly. 

Willa  nodded,  her  lips  trembled,  and  she  winked 
hard  and  fast  to  keep  the  tears  back. 

"If  Willa  hadn't  touched  the  knife,  the  knife 
wouldn't  have  cut,  would  it?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Then  if  Willa  had  minded  papa,  she  wouldn't 
have  been  hurt,  would  she?" 

Another  shake  of  her  head  came. 

"Willa  knows  now  that  she  ought  to  have  mind- 


50  THE  PROBLEM 

ed,  doesn't  she?" 

This  time  a  nod  came  as  his  answer. 

"And  she  is  sorry  now  and  wants  to  be  good?" 

Another  nod  followed. 

"Well  papa  is  very,  very  sorry  that  little  Willa 
was  naughty,  but  he  is  so  pleased  to  think  that  she 
has  told  him  all  about  it  like  a  little  lady  that  he 
isn't  going  to  scold  her  or  punish  her  at  all  this 
time,  but  if  she  hadn't  told  papa  and  he  had  found 
out  about  it,  he  would  have  had  to  punish  her  be- 
cause she  didn't  mind  him.  Do  you  understand?" 

This  time  a  faint  "yes"  accompanied  the  nod. 

"Then  your  being  sorry,  and  not  being  naughty 
any  more,  makes  papa  forgive  you,  and  is  going 
to  mend  everything,  isn't  it?" 

"And  mate  papa  'uv  me  den?"  she  asked,  hope- 
fully. 

"Papa  always  loves  you,  darling.  And  you  will 
always  come  to  papa  and  tell  him  everything?" 

"Yes,"  and  as  though  to  bind  the  contract  all 
the  more  firmly,  she  tucked  her  little  fat  hand  into 
his  big  palm  and  left  it  there. 

Thus  ended  a  scene  which  neither  Willa  nor  the 
Doctor  ever  forgot,  a  scene  that  bound  their  hearts 
more  closely  together  than  ever  before. 

On  going  into  the  house,  neither  spoke  of  what 
had  happened,  but  that  night  after  Willa  had  knelt 
by  Mrs.  Warren's  knee  and  said  that  blessed,  child- 
ish prayer:  "Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,"  and 
finished  by  saying,  "Dod  b'ess  papa;  Dod  b'ess 
mama;  Dod  b'ess  baby;  Dod  b'ess  ebbybody, 


CHARACTER  REVEALED  51 

amen;"  had  given  them  each  a  good-night  kiss, 
climbed  into  her  little  bed  and  gone  to  Dreamland, 
the  Doctor  told  his  wife  all  about  their  afternoon's 
experience,  adding: 

"I'm  almost  glad  she  did  it,  because  it  proves  to 
us  the  true  nature  of  the  child  and  that  she  is  one 
in  a  hundred.  One  seldom  sees  a  child  who,  of 
her  own  free  will,  would  have  made  such  a  confes- 
sion after  deliberately  disobeying." 

"I  think  it  was  one  of  the  noblest  things  I  ever 
knew  a  child  to  do.  It  is  hard  for  even  grown  peo- 
ple to  do  that,"  answered  his  wife. 

"I  think  this  ought  to  convince  anyone  that  she 
is  true  blue,  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  but  there  is  no  one  to  convince  but  us,  and 
we  were  convinced  long  ago,  weren't  we?" 

"I  know,  but  it  is  gratifying  even  then  to  see  the 
fact  emphasized  from  time  to  time  as  she  grows 
older." 

The  two  were  sitting  in  one  corner  of  the  porch 
as  they  talked,  and  to  the  relief  of  both,  no  call 
came  for  the  Doctor,  and  they  had  the  whole  even- 
ing together.  This  was,  indeed  a  treat  to  both; 
for  no  two  hearts  were  ever  more  united  in  every- 
thing than  those  two,  and  the  little  stranger  who 
had  joined  them,  although  she  had  wedged  her 
way  into  the  heart  of  each,  only  served  to  cement 
their  own  all  the  more  closely  together. 


1 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  DELAYED  VACATION 

HE  following  summer  Dr.  Warren  felt 
certain  that  his  wife  needed  a  change 
and  rest;  more  especially  because,  here- 
tofore, she  had  flatly  refused  to  go  any- 
where, even  to  her  old  home  in  Ripley  unless  he 
could  go,  too.  Arrangements  were  accordingly 
made  for  them  to  leave.  Without  much  difficulty, 
he  succeeded  in  getting  a  substitute,  for  the  time 
being, — a  young  Harvard  graduate  who  was  only 
too  glad  to  come,  both  for  the  sake  of  the  practice 
and  for  the  sake  of  a  start  financially,  because  he 
was  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  for  the  past  few 
years  money  had  been  constantly  going  out,  and 
only  a  very  little  or  none  coming  in. 

The  young  man,  Henry  V.  Livermore,  was  to 
come  to  Woodrow  three  days  prior  to  the  Doctor's 
leaving,  during  which  time  he  was  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  present  patients,  which  for  a  few 
weeks  might  come  under  his  care. 

Plans  were  made  for  Hannah  and  Si  to  go  up 
to  the  Doctor's  to  stay  during  this  time,  thus  giv- 
ing the  young  man  a  home  and  an  opportunity  to 
use  Dr.  Warren's  office  and  study.  When  the 
looked  for  day  came,  no  one  was  more  concerned 
than  Willa.  To  her,  as  to  any  child  of  four  years, 
the  trip  meant  more  than  a  trip  to  Europe  would 

52 


THE  DELAYED  VACATION         53 

mean  to  an  adult.  In  spite  of  her  happiness,  how- 
ever, her  lips  trembled  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears 
as  she  said  "good-by"  to  Hannah  and  Si,  who  to  her 
seemed  a  part  of  their  own  family. 

During  that  forenoon,  Hannah  certainly  found 
enough  to  keep  her  busy.  There  was  picking  up 
and  straightening  around  to  do  in  every  room,  there 
was  a  pie  to  be  made,  and  dinner  to  get. 

Dr.  Livermore  did  not  return  at  once  from  the 
postoffice. 

"Probably  he's  staying  round  talking  to  folks, 
trying  to  get  acquainted,"  said  Hannah  to  herself 
as  she  bustled  about  from  one  room  to  another; 
in  fact,  all  over  the  place  from  parlor  to  stable. 
The  truth  is,  Hannah  missed  each  one  of  the  three. 

"Seems  like  there'd  been  a  funeral,"  she  said  to 
Si,  when  she  passed  him  in  the  shed  where  he  was 
piling  up  tier  after  tier  of  winter's  wood. 

"Bless  the  dear!  Look  a'  that,"  said  Hannah, 
holding  up  to  Si's  view  the  little  washboard  which 
he  himself,  by  making  grooves  in  a  thin,  smooth 
piece  of  hard  wood  and  putting  on  a  neat  frame, 
had  made  for  Willa.  This  rested  in  a  keeler  where 
the  child  had  left  it  the  day  before  when  she 
was  helping,  as  she  thought,  to  wash.  It  was  an 
expected  thing  when  washday  came  for  Willa  to 
wash,  too,  and  no  child  to-day  gets  more  pleasure 
with  a  toy  piano  or  a  Teddy  bear  than  Willa  got 
with  her  little  tub  and  home-made  washboard. 

Not  a  single  day  passed  when  some  similar  in- 
cident did  not  take  place  which  brought  Willa  fresh 


54  THE  PROBLEM 

in  the  minds  of  her  loyal  friends.  Even  Dr.  Liv- 
ermore  had  become  attached  to  the  child  in  the 
few  days  he  had  known  her;  and,  day  after  day 
he  had  studied  the  picture  of  her  that  was  on  Dr. 
Warren's  desk.  Something  about  the  face  had  at- 
tracted him,  held  him ;  but  he  simply  thought  that 
she  was  an  exceptionally  interesting,  precocious 
child.  The  thought  that  she  was  not  the  own  child 
of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren  never  came  to  him,  and 
there  was  no  reason  why  it  should,  as  no  one  had 
even  hinted  at  such  a  thing. 

One  day  when  the  family  had  been  gone  over 
a  week,  he  came  in  from  making  a  call  on  one  of 
the  village  patients ;  he  had  been  caught  in  a  heavy 
shower  and  his  feet  were  wet.  After  going  to  his 
room  and  changing  shoes  and  stockings,  he  came 
back  to  the  study  and  sat  down  to  read  up  more 
thoroughly  the  diagnosis,  when  Hannah  came  out 
of  Willa's  room  exclaiming: 

"Well,  I  never!  You  just  come  here,  Doctor, 
and  look  a'  that." 

The  young  Doctor  followed.  At  first  he  did  not 
see  anything  to  attract  his  attention,  but  Hannah 
continued : 

"Even  the  cat  misses  her.  You  look  at  that  bed, 
now.  I  had  it  all  made  up  nice  and  smooth,  and 
now  look  at  it.  Every  mornin'  that  cat  comes  in 
this  room  to  see  if  Willa  is  up,  and  if  she  ain't,  he 
jumps  up  there  an'  they  have  a  play  together.  Just 
see  those  tracks !"  and  Hannah  pointed  to  the  dents 
in  the  white  spread  where  each  paw  had  gone  as 


THE  DELAYED  VACATION         55 

the  cat  had  made  his  way  diagonally  across  the  bed, 
and  then  at  the  head  had  disarranged  the  sham  as 
a  result  of  his  search  for  Willa. 

"If  that  isn't  cunning!  See  how  he  misses  her. 
He  is  the  most  stupid  cat  with  other  folks  and  they 
wouldn't  keep  him  if  it  wan't  for  Willa,  but  she 
can  do  anything  with  him.  Many  a  time  I've  seen 
her  wheel  him  back  and  forth  across  the  kitchen  in 
her  little  doll  cart,  and  he'd  stick  out  his  paws  and 
play  with  the  spokes  in  the  wheels  just  as  happy 
as  could  be;  and,  goodness!  One  o'  us  couldn't 
ha'  kept  him  there  while  we's  saying  'scat !'  ' 

By  the  time  Dr.  Livermore  got  back  to  the  study, 
his  mind  had  gone  from  the  subject  of  diagnoses, 
and  he  sat  gazing  at  Willa's  picture.  All  at  once 
he  started,  sat  bolt  upright,  and  then  leaned  over 
to  take  the  picture  in  his  hand.  He  turned  it  first 
one  way  and  then  another.  At  last,  he  said  to  him- 
self: 

"I've  solved  the  mystery.  I  have  tried  ever  since 
I  have  been  here  to  make  up  my  mind  where  I 
had  seen  a  face  that  Willa's  reminded  me  of,  but 
now  I  know.  It's  the  picture  that  father  has  of 
Aunt  Emily  taken  when  she  was  a  child.  The  ex- 
pression around  the  eyes  and  mouth  are  just  the 
same.  By  George,  it  is!  I  wish  I  had  it  here. 
Father  wouldn't  let  it  out  of  the  house,  though,  for 
love  nor  money.  He  blames  himself  and  always 
will.  Wouldn't  it  be  strange  if  the  Warren's  were 
some  relation  to  our  family  and  we  never  knew  it; 
but,  Mrs.  Warren  isn't,  for  we  know  of  her  fam- 


56  THE  PROBLEM 

ily  in  Ripley.  I  wonder  where  the  Doctor  came 
from.  I  must  ask  Mrs.  Campbell,"  and  he  hur- 
riedly rose  to  go  to  the  kitchen  where  she  was  at 
work  when  he  heard  one  of  the  neighbors  come  in. 
He  turned  on  his  heel,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
paced  the  floor  back  and  forth  several  times.  Sud- 
denly, his  eyes  lighted  on  a  well  worn  Bible,  and  he 
remembered  seeing  family  records  in  some  old 
Bibles  and  wondered  if  there  was  one  in  this.  He 
opened  it  anxiously,  and  found  it  to  be  one  be- 
longing to  the  Warren  family.  In  it  were  entered 
several  names,  but  the  record  stopped  with  the 
death  of  the  Doctor's  father,  fifteen  years  before. 
Not  even  the  Doctor's  marriage  was  entered.  He 
carefully  read  and  re-read  the  names  but  none  of 
them  was  in  any  way  connected  with  his  own  fam- 
ily history.  He  reluctantly  closed  the  book,  feel- 
ing that  the  matter  was  settled.  What  had  seemed 
like  a  clew  was  only  a  coincident,  after  all.  Not  a 
day  passed  after  that  when  he  did  not  think  of  the 
resemblance  between  the  two  faces,  but  he  never 
spoke  of  it.  He  had  grown  so  accustomed  to 
keeping  silent  about  their  family  trouble  that  it  had 
now  become  second  nature  to  him.  Nevertheless, 
he  again  and  again  wished  that  he  might  compare 
the  two  pictures  to  see  if  the  resemblance  were  real 
or  simply  a  creation  of  his  own  imagination. 


CHAPTER  IX 
AT  THE  OLD  HOME 

NOW,  Mrs.  Holway,  you  will  let  them 
come,  won't  you?" 
The  speaker  was  Mabel  Fairbanks, 
the  old  school  friend  of  Mrs.  War- 
ren's, who  first  visited  Woodrow  the  summer  fol- 
lowing Margaret's  marriage.     She  was  now  plead- 
ing for  the  Doctor,  Margaret  and  Willa  to  go 
over  to  their  house  to  supper. 

So  many  friends  did  Margaret  have  who  had 
not  seen  her  since  her  marriage  that  Mrs.  Holway 
was  beginning  to  grow  worried  lest  her  daughter's 
stay  at  home  might  in  reality  be  shorter  than  they 
had  anticipated.  True,  she  and  Mr.  Holway  had 
visited  her  several  times  at  Christmas,  and  twice 
had  they  been  at  Woodrow  during  the  summer,  but 
not  once  before  had  Margaret  been  home  since  the 
day  of  her  marriage.  She  had  refused  to  come 
without  the  Doctor,  and  never  before  had  he  really 
felt  that  he  could  leave.  As  it  was,  he  did  so  now 
wholly  on  her  account;  but,  free  again,  he  was  en- 
joying the  respite  from  work  as  much  as  his  wife. 
At  the  time  of  Mabel's  call,  the  Doctor  and 
Willa  had  gone  for  a  ride  with  Mr.  Holway,  who 
with  his  wife  knew  the  secret  of  this  little  family 
— knew  that  Willa  was  not  their  own  grandchild. 
More  than  one  neighbor  exclaimed: 

57 


58  THE  PROBLEM 

"How  much  she  looks  like  her  mother!" 

Her  light  hair  and  blue  eyes  naturally  made 
everybody  feel  that  she  did  resemble  Mrs.  Warren 
instead  of  the  Doctor,  who  had  dark  hair  and 
eyes,  and  clear,  dark  skin. 

But  whether  there  is  resemblance  or  not,  what 
child  ever  grew  up  without  being  told  that  he  or 
she  looked  like  father  or  mother,  grandfather  or 
grandmother,  uncles  or  aunts,  even  unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generations?  It  is  so  easy,  when  some 
comment  is  felt  necessary,  to  say:  "She  does  look 

so  much  like  .  I  always  thought  a  lot  of 

.  We  were  the  best  of  friends,"  and  then 

to  sit  back  congratulating  oneself  on  having  said 
something  very  clever  and  courteous.  Many,  in- 
deed, are  the  doubtful  compliments  heaped  on  the 
innocents  of  every  age.  However,  in  the  case  of 
Mrs.  Warren  and  Willa,  each  might  consider  that 
a  compliment  had  been  paid  her. 

By  the  time  Mabel  left  the  Holway  home,  she 
had  gained  the  consent  of  Mrs.  Holway,  who 
finally  said: 

"I  know,  dear,  it  is  lovely  in  you  to  have  them, 
and  they  will  enjoy  every  minute;  but  truly,  Ma- 
bel, I  am  afraid  it  is  too  much  for  you.  You  have 
so  much  to  do  all  the  time." 

"O,  don't  you  think  of  that!  Besides,  Hallie 
is  turning  into  a  real  housekeeper.  She  has  done 
a  good  part  of  the  cooking  ever  since  she  gradu- 
ated. We  were  speaking  of  Em  last  night.  She 
will  be  so  disappointed  not  to  see  Margaret!" 


AT  THE  OLD  HOME  59 

"I  have  been  worrying  about  Em,"  said  Mrs. 
Holway,  kindly.  "I  am  afraid  she  will  get  all 
tired  out  this  summer,  and  not  feel  rested  for  her 
year's  work." 

"I  know,"  answered  Mabel,  regretfully.  "We 
all  felt  her  year's  teaching  was  enough;  but,  you 
know  those  people  and  that  they  pay  well  for  tu- 
toring. She  just  couldn't  resist." 

"If  she  can  only  stand  it,  it  will  be  all  right, 
but  I  have  feared  it  was  too  much,"  replied  Mrs. 
Holway,  in  her  motherly  way. 

"When  we  say  a  word,  she  only  laughs,  and  says 
she  is  of  age  now  so  we  can't  make  her  mind.  Hallie 
was  bound  to  do  something  to  help,  but  Uncle  Dick 
just  put  his  foot  down.  You  know  Uncle  Dick. 
What  he  says  has  to  go,  and  he  stuck  to  it  that  she 
must  stay  home  to  help  me  for  a  while." 

Margaret  and  her  mother  accompanied  Mabel 
to  the  gate,  where  Mrs.  Holway  stopped  to  pick  a 
rose  just  bloomed  for  Mabel  to  carry  to  her  moth- 
er. The  three  then  parted,  Mabel  having  Margar- 
et's promise  that  they  would  visit  her  that  evening. 

The  first  day  after  her  arrival,  Margaret  had 
gone  to  see  Mrs.  Fairbanks,  who  was  so  changed 
that  only  her  eyes  looked  natural,  and  even  they 
seemed  larger,  so  thin  and  wasted  had  she  grown. 
As  Margaret  had  looked  at  her  lying  partially 
bolstered  up  in  her  wheel  chair,  her  wavy  hair  a 
mass  of  silver  about  her  radiant  face,  she  felt,  as 
she  told  her  mother  afterward,  that  there  was 
something  angelic  about  her. 


60  THE  PROBLEM 

"But  hasn't  their  uncle  been  one  man  in  a  hun- 
dred!" exclaimed  Margaret,  when  they  were  alone 
together. 

"One  in  a  thousand,  I  should  say;  but  if  you 
had  known  Dick  Tenny  as  a  boy  you  would  never 
wonder  at  his  becoming  the  man  that  he  has,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Holway. 

"And  to  think  that  they  don't  even  know  wheth- 
er Mr.  Fairbanks  is  dead  or  alive !"  said  Margaret 
with  a  shudder. 

"I  know  it.  It's  no  wonder  Mrs.  Fairbanks  is 
where  she  is,"  answered  her  mother. 

The  two  were  still  talking  when  they  heard 
the  sound  of  wheels  and  a  whoop  of  delight  from 
Willa  as  the  carriage  came  into  the  yard.  Look- 
ing out,  Margaret  saw  not  only  her  father,  the 
doctor,  and  Willa,  but  a  strange  little  girl  about 
ten  years  of  age. 

"  'Trawberries,  Gamma !  'Trawberries,  Mama ! 
See!"  cried  Willa,  holding  up  for  their  inspection 
a  three  quart  pail  of  field  berries. 

The  Doctor  jumped  out,  lifted  from  the  buggy 
first  Willa,  and  then  the  little  girl  who  said  her 
name  was  Jennie  Jordan,  and  who  was  on  her  way 
to  sell  the  berries,  when  the  three  had  overtaken 
her. 

The  two  children  followed  Mrs.  Holway  and 
Margaret  into  the  house;  and,  before  Mrs.  Hol- 
way could  set  the  pail  of  berries  on  the  table,  Willa 
was  teasing  for  a  cookie.  Jennie  was  also  treated 
and  then  led  by  Willa  to  grandma's  sewing  room, 


AT  THE  OLD  HOME  61 

in  one  corner  of  which  was  a  box  of  playthings; 
and  there,  the  two  children  entertained  themselves 
while  Mrs.  Holway  turned  the  berries  out  on  a 
large  platter,  washed  the  pail  and  packed  it  with 
cookies,  candy,  and  peanuts,  crowning  all  with  a 
generous  piece  of  chocolate  cake. 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Jennie,  anxiously,  on 
being  told  that  her  pail  was  ready,  but  that  she 
might  play  longer  if  she  wished. 

"Just  quarter  of  eleven,"  answered  Mrs.  Hol- 
way, kindly. 

"Then  I  must  go,  'cause  I've  got  to  go  to  the 
store  for  mama,"  answered  Jennie,  taking  a  long- 
ing look  at  the  box  of  toys. 

She  did  not  know  then  of  the  surprise  awaiting 
her  in  the  little  tin  pail.  She  only  knew  that  she 
was  in  what  seemed  Fairyland,  indeed;  but  she 
was  no  more  loath  to  leave  than  Willa  was  to  have 
her  go.  When  Willa  was  told  that  Jennie  had  two 
brothers  and  four  sisters,  she  exclaimed : 

"G'acious !  If  I  had  one  ev'y,  ev'y  day,  I's  be 
sat'sfied  and  fink  I's  'ich." 

Thus,  each  child  in  her  own  little  way  was  envy- 
ing the  other. 


I 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  DOCTOR'S  OPINION 

HAT  same  evening,  between  eight  and 
nine  o'clock,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holway 
were  sitting  on  their  back  porch,  where 
they  had  gone  earlier  in  the  evening  to 
enjoy  the  glorious  sunset,  when  they  heard  the 
sound  of  voices  and  Willa's  childish  prattle.  The 
Doctor  and  his  wife  had  been  obliged  to  make  their 
visit  shorter  than  it  otherwise  would  have  been  on 
the  child's  account ;  for  Willa  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  sitting  up  late,  and  had  been  allowed  to  go  only 
for  the  sake  of  Mrs.  Fairbanks,  who  insisted  on 
having  the  child  come  as  well  as  her  father  and 
mother.  For  so  many  years  the  two  families  had 
stood  on  friendly  terms  that  ceremony  could  at  all 
times  be  laid  aside,  and  thus  it  was  to-night. 

After  Willa  had  gone  on  a  mission,  giving  each 
one  a  good-night  kiss,  she  went  inside  with  her 
mother  and  was  soon  in  her  little  bed.  Before  she 
would  let  her  mother  leave,  however,  she  made  her 
promise  to  send  her  papa  in,  "jes'  a  minute,  mama," 
she  pleaded. 

Mrs.  Warren,  accordingly,  delivered  the  mes- 
sage to  her  husband,  who,  as  soon  as  he  and  the 
others  had  finished  the  topic  under  discussion,  rose 
and  went  to  Willa's  room. 

As  he  leaned  over  the  bed,  the  child  sat  up, 
S62 


THE  DOCTOR'S  OPINION          63 

clasped  both  arms  about  his  neck,  gave  him  a  kiss 
on  each  cheek,  and  then  in  a  whisper  said : 

"Papa,  when's  Kismas?" 

"O,  Christmas  won't  be  for  a  long,  long  time. 
What  has  put  that  in  your  head?" 

"  'Cause,  I  was  finking  o'  sumfin'  I  wanted," 
she  answered. 

It  was  dark  and  Willa  could  not  see  the  smile 
that  hovered  around  the  Doctor's  mouth. 

"Why,  what  does  Willa  want?"  he  asked,  so- 
berly. 

"You  know  Jennie — the  girl  Gampa  bought  ber- 
ries of?" 

"Yes," 

"Well,  she  said  dis  mornin'  dat  she  had  free, 
four,  ten,  I  guess,  bruzzers  and  sissers,  an'  I  fought 
maybe,  'fore  we  went  home,  you'd  buy  Willa  one." 

For  a  full  minute  the  Doctor  was  silent.  He 
felt  the  touch  of  the  childish  cheek  against  his, 
and  felt  her  anxious  breathing.  He  knew  with 
what  longing  she  waited  for  his  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion that  seemed  so  reasonable  to  her,  but  in  reality 
was  so  impossible. 

"Willa,  dear,"  he  said  tenderly  and  slowly, 
"you  know  papa  always  tells  you  the  truth,  doesn't 
he?" 

"Yes,  papa,"  she  answered. 

"Well,  don't  you  know  how  much  papa  and  ma- 
ma love  you?" 

"Yes." 

"And  they  wouldn't  think  of  selling  you  if  thef 


64  THE  PROBLEM 

were  offered  all  the  money  in  the  world,  would 
they?" 

"N-o,"  she  answered,  thoughtfully. 

"Well,  that  little  girl's  papa  and  mama  love  her, 
don't  they?" 

"Yes." 

"And  they  would  love  her  brothers  and  sisters 
just  the  same,  wouldn't  they?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  we  couldn't  expect  them  to  sell  one  of 
them,  could  we  ?" 

"But,  papa,  I  fot  dey  is  so  many,  and  dey  is 
poor,  'cause  she  was  selling  berries  to  det  money, 
an'  maybe  dey'd  sell  a  bruzzer  or  sisser,  'cause  I 
haven't  any,  you  know." 

"I  know,  dear,  but " 

"But,  papa,  will  you  jest  ast  dem  when  we  det 
berries,  den?"  urged  Willa. 

"Yes,  papa  will  ask  them,  but  he  knows  they 
will  say  'no.'  ' 

"But  you  will  ast  dem,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  when  I  see  them  again,  I  will  ask  them." 

"I  knew  you  would,  'cause  you  don't  b'ame  Wil- 
la for  wanting  a  bruzzer  or  sisser,  do  you?" 

"No,  dear,  papa  doesn't  blame  you.  Now  you 
will  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep,  won't  you?" 

"Yes.     Dood  night,  an'  fank  you,  papa." 

"Good  night,  precious,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he 
lay  the  child  down  on  the  pillow  and  left  a  kiss  on 
her  lips  and  another  on  her  forehead. 

Willa  was  soon  in  Dreamland,  and  little  knew 


THE  DOCTOR'S  OPINION          65 

the  heartache  which  her  childish  words  had  caused 
him,  but  which  in  reality  made  him  love  her  all  the 
more ;  for  they  went  to  prove  that  she  was  a  nor- 
mal child  with  natural  childish  longings. 

The  big-hearted  man  decided  not  to  tell  his  wife, 
for  she  would  only  remember  their  loss  of  the  past, 
which  would  cause  a  cloud  to  pass  over  her  sky 
that  was  just  now  so  serene  and  clear.  Instead, 
he  joined  the  group  on  the  piazza,  and  was  soon 
having  a  part  in  the  conversation. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Mrs.  Fairbanks,  Hunt?" 
asked  Mrs.  Holway. 

"She  looks  to  me  as  though  she  was  partly  in 
the  other  world,  already,  and  was  simply  keeping 
her  hold  on  this  one  by  a  thread  so  slender  that  it 
might  break  at  any  moment." 

"She  can't  last  long,  can  she?" 

"I  should  not  be  surprised  if  they  should  walk  in 
now  to  say  that  she  was  dead,"  he  answered. 

"That  is  just  the  way  I  have  felt  for  days," 
said  Mrs.  Holway.  "I  do  not  like  to  say  anything 
to  Mabel,  for  it  would  only  worry  her;  and  it  has 
been  coming  on  so  gradually  that  I  do  not  think 
she  notices  it  so  much  as  we." 

"She  can't,  for  she  and  Hallie  were  so  happy, 
to-night,"  said  Margaret. 

"If  it  had  not  been  for  that  happy  disposition, 
Mabel  would  never  have  held  up  as  she  has,"  re- 
plied her  mother. 

"What  did  Willa  want?"  asked  Margaret,  turn- 
ing to  her  husband. 


66  THE  PROBLEM 

"O,  she  wanted  to  know  when  'Kismas'  was 
coming,"  laughed  the  Doctor. 

"Anything  for  an  excuse  to  get  one  of  us  to 
stay  with  her  a  little  longer.  I  guess  it  was  that 
more  than  anything  else,"  said  his  wife,  and  the 
Doctor  did  not  tell  her  the  difference. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  VISITOR 


I 


"1  HE  next  morning,  Margaret  had  just 
dressed  Willa,  and  the  Doctor  was  lac- 
ing her  shoes,  when  the  child  who  sat 
facing  the  window,  cried  emphatically, 
"Here's  Auntie  Mabel!" 

Mabel,  who  had  gone  to  the  kitchen  door, 
started  to  open  the  screen,  but  finding  it  hasped, 
rapped  just  as  Margaret  appeared  to  greet  her. 
One  look  at  her  face,  blanched  and  drawn,  so 
frightened  Mrs.  Warren  that  she  could  not  even 
say,  "Good  morning." 

"Where's  Hunt?"  Mabel  gasped,  "and  Mr. 
Holway?" 

"In  the  sitting-room.  Why,  what's  happened, 
Mabel?"  said  Margaret. 

"May  I  see  them  alone?"  the  other  asked. 

"Of  course.  Come  in,"  replied  the  other,  as  she 
led  the  way  to  the  room  where  her  husband  and 
father  sat. 

Willa  had  followed  to  the  door,  and  now  stood 
clinging  to  her  mother's  hand.  She  had  expected 
a  romp,  as  she  was  wont  to  have  with  "Auntie  Ma- 
bel," but  this  Mabel  she  did  not  know,  and  not  a 
word  came  from  her. 

The  fears  which  the  Doctor  had  expressed  the 
evening  before  had  partially  prepared  Mrs.  Hoi- 

67 


68  THE  PROBLEM 

way  and  Margaret  for  whatever  the  shock  might 
be,  but  both  returned  to  the  kitchen  and  left  Ma- 
bel alone  with  the  two  as  requested. 

The  moment  the  Doctor  looked  at  her,  he 
thought  he  knew  what  had  happened.  No  tear 
was  to  be  seen;  no  tremble  of  her  voice  was  de- 
tected as  she  spoke. 

"My  story  is  long,  but  let  me  tell  it,"  she  said. 
"Don't  ask  any  questions  until  I  am  through,"  she 
went  on. 

Both  men  nodded,  and  she  continued : 

"I  have  come  here  because  you  all  are  among  the 
best  friends  we  have  in  the  world.  I  didn't  tell 
Margaret  because  I  couldn't;  besides,  I  thought 
you  might  break  the  news  more  gently." 

Both  men  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  Both 
felt  certain  that  her  mother  must  be  dead,  but  why 
didn't  she  say  so?  They  waited  anxiously  while 
the  girl  paused  to  take  breath,  after  which  she 
went  on  in  the  same  even  tone  as  before : 

"Last  night  we  went  to  bed  as  usual,  and  we 
heard  no  disturbance  through  the  night.  This 
morning  I  was  awakened  by  the  birds  in  the  trees 
near  my  window.  Remembering  how  much  I  had 
to  do  to-day,  I  was  glad  to  have  waked  early,  and 
I  dressed  as  quickly  as  possible.  The  first  thing 
on  going  to  the  kitchen  I  always  open  the  door  to 
let  in  the  fresh  morning  air,  and  this  morning  when 
I  opened  it,  I  saw  a  man's  form  lying  there,  face 
downward,  as  if  asleep.  It  gave  me  a  dreadful 
start  and  I  ran  back  to  wake  Hallie.  He  seemed 


THE  VISITOR  69 

to  be  sleeping  so  soundly  that  we  tiptoed  out  to 
look  at  him,  and "  here  she  stopped,  cov- 
ering her  face  with  her  hands,  before  she  could 
say,  "and — it — was — father." 

"Your  father!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Holway,  jump- 
ing from  his  chair  and  forgetting  for  a  moment 
her  request  in  the  beginning. 

"Yes,  and — he — was — dead." 

She  paused  again,  swallowed  several  times,  and 
several  times  opened  her  mouth  as  if  to  speak,  but 
for  moments  it  seemed  as  though  no  word  would 
come. 

"We  waited  for  the  milkman  to  come  along," 
she  at  last  said,  "and  he  helped  us  to  take  him  in- 
side. Mother  heard  the  commotion  and  asked  us 
what  it  was,  and  what  we  were  up  so  early  for. 
We  tried  to  put  her  off,  but  of  course  we  had  to 
have  the  undertaker,  and  she  saw  him  pass  the 
door.  Before  we  had  time  to  realize  anything, 
she,  who  hasn't  walked  alone  for  so  many  years, 
went  straight  to  that  room,  and  there  she  saw — 
father.  We  all  stood  there  almost  paralyzed.  She 
went  up  close  to  him  and  took  one  long  look;  the 
word  'Henry'  came  in  a  whisper,  and  then  she 
fainted.  We  called  the  doctor  at  once,  but — she's 
— gone, — too." 

"Mabel !"  gasped  the  two  men,  as  they  stepped 
to  her  chair  and  laid  their  hands  on  each  of  her 
shoulders.  Their  hearts  were  so  full  of  pity  that 
they  could  not  say  another  word. 

For  several  minutes  she  sat  there,   her  head 


70  THE  PROBLEM 

buried  in  her  hands,  and  when  she  raised  it,  she 
saw  tears  in  the  eyes  of  both  her  listeners.  She 
rose  to  go.  The  blank,  dazed  look  was  still  on  her 
face. 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"No,  you  wait  and  tell  Margaret.  Tell  it  easy," 
and  in  another  second  she  was  gone.  Down  over 
the  walk  she  sped,  and  the  two  men  with  hearts 
so  full  of  sympathy  felt  for  a  moment  perfectly 
helpless  before  this  sorrow. 

At  last,  the  Doctor  said,  "Hadn't  we  better  tell 
them  now?" 

"They  may  as  well  know  it  one  time  as  another, 
and  they  must  be  somewhat  prepared  by  seeing  her 
come  in  in  this  way,  with  that  look  on  her  face," 
answered  Mr.  Holway. 

"Is  Willa  there?"  asked  the  Doctor,  opening 
the  door  to  the  kitchen. 

"No,  she  is  out  feeding  the  pigeons.  What  is  it, 
Hunt?"  asked  his  wife. 

He  told  the  sad  story  which  had  more  inter- 
ruptions this  time  than  it  had  had  during  the  pre- 
vious telling.  When  he  had  finished,  the  Doctor 
said: 

"Mabel  is  in  danger.  I  must  go  over  at  once. 
I'll  see  if  I  can  persuade  her  to  take  something  for 
her  nerves.  A  good  cry  would  do  her  more  good 
than  anything  else." 

"I'll  go,  too,"  said  Margaret.  "Mother'll  look 
out  for  Willa." 

"You  wait  a  little  while.     Let  me  go  first,  and 


THE  VISITOR  71 

then  I  will  come  back  for  you,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor, tenderly. 

"Yes,  you  better,  Margaret,"  urged  the  mother. 

The  Doctor  at  once  hurried  away.  At  the  Fair- 
banks home,  he  found  Dr.  Channing,  the  under- 
taker, his  assistant,  and  Mrs.  Fleming,  who  worked 
out  by  the  day,  and  for  whom  their  family  doctor 
had  urged  Mabel  to  send. 

Several  minutes  passed  before  Dr.  Warren  saw 
either  Mabel  or  Hallie.  From  the  undertaker  he 
learned  that  the  father  had  come  home  a  mere 
tramp,  and  evidently  had  exerted  all  his  strength 
in  reaching  the  home  of  his  family — not  the  origin- 
al Fairbanks  home,  but  where  the  family  had  lived 
since  reverses  came  upon  them.  No  money,  no 
papers  were  found  on  his  body  to  give  the  family 
the  least  clue  as  to  the  story  of  his  life  during  his 
long  absence.  In  one  pocket  was  a  pipe,  which 
was  partly  filled  with  ashes,  but  no  fresh  tobacco 
was  found.  In  an  inner  pocket  on  his  shirt  was 
a  much  soiled  picture  of  Mrs.  Fairbanks  taken  be- 
fore they  were  married.  Some  twine,  three  or  four 
nails  and  a  few  buttons  constituted  the  all  with 
which  he  had  returned.  Judging  from  the  appear- 
ance of  his  shoes,  the  man  had  walked  a  long  dis- 
tance. No  doubt,  overcome  by  fatigue  and  hunger, 
he  could  not  stand  the  shock  he  had  felt  in  nearing 
the  home  of  the  family  which,  years  before,  he 
had  so  cruelly  forsaken. 

As  Dr.  Warren  left  the  room,  he  encountered 
Mabel  and  Hallie  who  had  just  come  down  the 


72  THE  PROBLEM 

stairs.  Hallie's  eyes  were  red  and  swollen,  but 
Mabel,  as  before,  was  calm,  too  calm  for  her  own 
good. 

"Girls,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  minute,"  said 
the  Doctor. 

The  two  halted,  looking  straight  at  him. 

"I  want  you  both  to  feel,"  he  went  on,  "that 
each  one  of  us  is  at  your  service.  You  know  there 
is  nothing  in  our  power  that  we  would  not  do  to 
help  you,  and  please  ask  me  to  do  anything  that 
you  would  ask  an  own  brother  to  do." 

"Thank  you;  we  trust  you.  Perhaps  you  will 
look  after  the  telegrams,"  suggested  Mabel. 

"Anything.  Let's  sit  down  here  and  you  give 
me  the  names,"  answered  the  Doctor. 

The  three  sat  down  by  the  dining-room  table 
while  name  after  name  was  written. 

"I  have  been  wondering,"  said  Mabel,  "if  James 
Gooding — that  last  name  I  gave  you — and  his 
wife  could  not  come  by  to-night  and  stay  until — 
after—." 

She  stopped.  The  Doctor  nodded  and  Mabel 
went  on : 

"He  is  a  second  cousin  of  ours.  They  haven't 
any  children,  and  they  could  come  to  stay  over  bet- 
ter than  any  of  the  others,  and  I  think  they  will  if 
we  ask  them." 

"I'll  send  at  once,"  replied  the  Doctor. 

"Hallie  and  I  will  leave  you  while  you  are  writ- 
ing. Emily  will  be  here  by  noon,  but  we  have  some 
things  that  we  need  to  look  after  up  stairs,"  said 


THE  VISITOR  73 

Mabel. 

When  the  two  sisters  again  appeared,  they  found 
Margaret,  who  had  come  with  a  true  woman's 
heart,  with  a  woman's  sympathy  and  help,  the 
sweetness  and  genuineness  of  which  touched  Ma- 
bel in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  the  tears,  and  when 
once  started  it  seemed  as  though  her  whole  soul 
was  being  poured  out  with  them. 


CHAPTER  XII 
NEW  PLANS 


I 


weeks  later,  Mabel,  Emily  and 
Hallie  were  over  to  Mrs.  Holway's  to 
dinner.  It  was  the  evening  before  the 
Doctor,  Margaret  and  Willa  were  to  re- 
turn to  Woodrow.  In  fact,  they  had  already  stayed 
a  week  longer  than  they  had  anticipated,  and  now 
they  felt  that  they  must  not  stay  another  day. 

More  than  once,  Mabel  had  thought  their  visit 
providential  at  this  time,  such  a  support  and  com- 
fort had  they  been  to  her  and  her  sisters.  The  past 
few  weeks  had  wrought  great  changes  in  their  lives. 
Plans  were  all  made,  and  Hallie  had  been  prom- 
ised a  position  as  teacher  in  Canton,  in  the  same 
school  where  Emily  taught,  and  Mabel  had  been 
asked  to  act  as  matron  in  the  "Home  for  Girls," 
at  Blanchard.  The  trustees  had  even  promised  to 
hold  the  position  open  until  October,  because  both 
Dr.  Channing  and  Dr.  Warren  agreed  that  the 
girl  must  have  a  rest  before  taking  on  herself  any 
new  and  added  duties.  More  than  that,  the  girl 
had  promised  Margaret  and  the  Doctor  to  spend 
the  month  of  September  at  Woodrow.  She  was 
determined,  however,  now  that  her  mother  needed 
her  no  longer,  that  she  would  cease  to  be  dependent 
on  her  uncle,  who  had  already  done  so  much  for 
them. 

74 


NEW  PLANS  75 

The  bulk  of  their  furniture  had  been  sold,  and 
much  of  the  money  used,  although  uncle  Dick  had 
sent  check  as  usual;  but  it  seemed  to  the  girls  at 
that  time  that  money  was  needed  on  all  sides. 

On  the  evening  in  question,  Willa  was  allowed 
to  sit  up  later  than  usual,  the  older  ones  thinking 
that  her  childish  playfulness  might  be  a  source  of 
pleasure  and  comfort  to  their  guests,  and  so  they 
were  for  she  had  won  her  way  into  the  heart  of 
each.  She  preferred  Hallie,  however,  for  Hallie 
would  help  her  to  dress  or  to  undress  her  dolls, 
build  block  houses,  or  in  fact  be  a  child  herself 
once  more.  The  power  to  do  this,  as  the  others 
said  after  her  departure,  would  do  more  than 
anything  else  to  make  her  a  successful  teacher.  The 
children  would  love  her,  and  often  times  a  poor 
teacher  will  do  better  work  with  the  love  of  chil- 
dren, than  a  good  one  will  without  it. 

"They  are  three  noble  girls,  and  I  am  proud  of 
each  one  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Holway. 

"They  feel  as  keenly  as  anyone,  and  yet  see  how 
bravely  they  bear  up  under  it,"  replied  his  wife. 

"I'm  glad  Mabel  is  going  to  have  the  month  in 
Woodrow,"  said  the  Doctor.  "That  other  visit  did 
her  a  world  of  good." 

"She  needs  it  more  than  the  others;  besides 
they  are  to  be  together  and  will  be  company  for 
each  other,"  said  Margaret  thoughtfully. 

They  finally  rose  with  the  intention  of  starting 
for  bed.  Margaret's  trunk  sat  at  one  side  of  the 
kitchen,  all  strapped  and  ready  for  the  man  to 


76  THE  PROBLEM 

take  the  next  morning.  What  few  things  they  had 
left  out  could  go  in  their  grip  which  the  Doctor 
would  carry. 

It  does  seem  as  though  I  can't  let  you  go,"  said 
Mrs.  Holway. 

"My!  But  we  are  going  to  miss  that  child!" 
said  her  husband,  positively. 

"Now,  hear  him !"  said  Margaret  to  the  Doctor. 
"He  never  mentions  missing  us,"  she  said,  march- 
ing straight  up  to  her  father  and  throwing  her 
arms  around  his  neck. 

"You  two  are  old  enough  to  know  that  we  shall 
miss  you,  without  our  telling  you,"  answered  the 
good-natured  man,  laughingly,  as  he  pulled  her 
on  his  knee,  just  as  he  had  done  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  times  in  the  past. 

"I  don't  see  what  we  have  done  that  you  should 
punish  us  so,"  he  went  on.  "First  you  got  the  Doc- 
tor and  made  us  love  him,  and  then,  Willa,  and 
made  us  love  her,  and  now  the  three  of  you  go 
and  leave  us  all  alone.  I  think  that  is  pretty  tough 
on  an  old  couple  like  us,"  he  said  playfully. 

"Old!"  cried  Margaret.  "You  and  mother'll 
never  be  old.  It  isn't  your  style,"  she  said,  pinch- 
ing both  his  cheeks  and  giving  him  a  Scotch  kiss 
as  Willa  was  fond  of  doing. 

"We  might  stay  young  if  we  had  you  children 
around  all  the  time,"  he  said,  "but  I  tell  you,  there 
is  no  joke  to  it.  We  do  get  pretty  lonesome,  some- 
times." 

"But  you  don't  wish  I  had  never  found  Hunt, 


NEW  PLANS  77 

and  had  stayed  a  cross  old  maid  all  my  life,  now 
do  you?"  said  his  daughter,  winking  at  the  Doc- 
tor who  stood  leaning  against  the  door-casing. 

"Bless  you,  no !  We  never  would  have  had  a 
son  if  you  hadn't  gotten  us  one;  and, — had  we 
chosen  him  ourselves,  we  couldn't  have  loved  him 
more,"  answered  her  father. 

"Ahem!  Thank  you,"  said  the  Doctor.  "Then 
you  have  never  regretted  giving  her  to  me?"  he 
asked,  more  seriously. 

"Never !  but  we  can't  help  missing  her  just  the 
same,  can  we  mother?"  the  rather  answered. 

Mrs.  Holway  had  just  returned  to  the  room. 
While  the  others  had  been  talking,  she  had  been 
in  the  pantry  getting  some  dainties  ready  for  their 
luncheon  which  would  be  packed  in  the  morning, 
and  which  she  felt  she  could  not  trust  to  the  maid. 

"Can  we  what?"  she  asked,  for  she  had  not 
heard  what  had  been  said. 

"Of  course,  they  know  that  we  miss  them,"  she 
replied  when  told  the  nature  of  the  discussion,  "and 
yet  we  realize  each  day  how  much  we  have  to  be 
thankful  for.  We  can  go  to  see  them  if  they  can- 
not always  come  here,  and  supposing  Hunt  was 
a  regular  scapegoat  of  a  man,  what  would  we  do 
then?" 

"Don't  worry  your  head  about  that,  mother.  If 
he  had  been  that  kind  he  never  would  have  had 
me,"  said  Margaret. 

For  a  full  half-hour  the  four  talked  and  laughed 
before  separating  for  the  night.  When  up-stairs, 


78  THE  PROBLEM 

they  all  took  a  last  look  at  Willa,  as  she  lay  there 
fast  asleep,  the  right  arm  thrown  up  over  her  head, 
and  the  left  stretched  out  straight  from  the  should- 
er. Golden  curls  encircled  the  fair,  fresh  face, 
which  made  a  picture  beyond  the  power  of  any 
artist's  brush. 

"Sometimes,  what  you  have  told  us  seems  like 
a  dream,"  said  Mr.  Holway  to  the  Doctor,  "and 
then  I  begin  to  wonder  if  it  is  only  a  dream  or  a 
stern  reality  after  all.  She  seems  all  that  one  could 
ask  for  in  their  own  flesh  and  blood." 

"If  she  continues  as  she  has  begun,  she  will  do 
credit  to  anyone,"  answered  the  Doctor.  "The 
only  question  that  ever  arises  in  my  mind  is  wheth- 
er or  not  we  ought  to  love  her  as  we  do,  because 
if  another  should  ever  claim  her,  it  would  be  like 
taking  a  part  of  our  very  lives." 

"I  have  often  thought  of  that,"  answered  the 
older  man.  "But,  on  the  other  hand,  wouldn't  it 
be  wrong  not  to  love  a  child  like  her?"  he  asked, 
pointing  at  the  fairy-like  picture. 

'Twould  be  beastly,"  he  went  on,  more 
earnestly.  "Any  one  with  any  heart  at  all  would 
have  to  love  her,  besides — " 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it,"  said  the  Doctor, 
gently  touching  her  little  hand.  "Just  so  long  as 
she  is  with  us,  we  shall  love  her,  and  do  for  her 
all  that  is  within  our  power." 

"God  bless  you  in  the  effort,"  said  Mr.  Holway, 
warmly,  as  he  turned  to  his  wife  who  stood  in  the 
doorway  talking  to  Margaret. 


NEW  PLANS  79 

"Come,  little  woman,"  he  said.  We  must  leave 
the  children,  or  none  of  us  will  be  ready  to  get  up 
in  the  morning." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
A  JOYOUS  RETURN 

IN  spite  of  the  good  time  they  had  had  in  Rip- 
ley,  the  three  travelers  were  happy  to  be  home 
again,   and  all  Woodrow  seemed  happy  to 
have  them.     They  arrived  in  the  evening  just 
in  time  to  escape  a  heavy  shower,  and  the  next 
morning  God's  out-of-doors  was  washed  clean  and 
sweet.     Even  the  fresh  mud  puddles  held  a  fasci- 
nation for  Willa,  and  nothing  would  satisfy  her 
but  to  don  her  new  rubber  boots  which  her  father 
had  bought  her  in  Ripley  and  test  each  puddle  to 
be  found  between  their  house  and  Si's,  as  well  as 
those  around  their  own  buildings,  for  the  cow  and 
the  chickens  all  had  to  have  a  call  from  her,  and 
be  fed  from  her  own  little  hands. 

Hannah  was  still  at  the  house,  and  was  to  re- 
main for  the  day,  until  Mrs.  Warren  should  have 
her  trunk  unpacked  and  feel  ready  again  to  take 
charge. 

Si  was  indeed  happy  to  have  Willa  back,  fol- 
lowing him  around,  asking  questions  that  made  him 
dizzy  to  answer,  and  some  that  he  could  not  an- 
swer, like:  "Why  is  de  smoke  from  our  chimney 
black,  Si,  and  dat  from  your  chimney  white?"  and 
many  others  of  like  propensity.  However,  whether 
he  could  answer  them  or  not,  it  was  a  comfort  to 
have  her  near  and  to  hear  the  little  voice  that  had 

80 


A  JOYOUS  RETURN  81 

grown  to  be  music  in  his  ears. 

The  two  doctors  were  in  busy  consultation.  Dr. 
Warren  had  many  questions  to  ask  about  his  vari- 
ous patients  throughout  the  town;  and,  although 
there  were  some  unpleasant  things  to  hear,  for  the 
most  part  the  reports  were  very  gratifying.  When 
the  list  had  been  gone  over,  the  young  doctor  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  looked  Dr.  Warren  straight  in  the 
eye,  and  in  a  most  serious  tone  said : 

"Naturally,  I  am  anxious  to  make  a  success  of 
my  profession  from  a  financial  standpoint  as  well  as 
in  other  ways,  but  if  I  were  not  in  actual  need  of 
money,  it  seems  to  me  that  wherever  I  locate  I 
should  be  satisfied  if  my  people  only  loved  me  as 
these  people  love  you." 

This  was  something  for  which  Dr.  Warren  was 
not  looking;  for  he  was  one  who  never  gave  him- 
self due  credit,  and  anyone  knowing  him  would 
sometimes  wonder  if  the  word  "conceit"  was  even 
printed  in  his  dictionary. 

"If  they  love  me,"  he  replied,  "it  must  be  be- 
cause I  loved  them  first.  They  are  as  loyal,  true 
a  people  as  I  ever  knew." 

"They  are  a  good  people,  and  their  devotion  to 
you  is  not  merely  wonderful,  but  beautiful." 

"You  are  just  starting  out  on  the  field  that  lies 
before  you.  Do  you  want  me  to  give  you  a  little 
piece  of  advice?"  asked  Dr.  Warren. 

"I  surely  would  be  glad  for  it,"  replied  the 
younger  man. 

"Then  let  me  say  now  that  the  first  thing  you 


82  THE  PROBLEM 

want  to  do,  after  you  get  settled,  and  your  pocket- 
book  will  allow  it,  is  to  choose  a  true,  earnest,  lov- 
able woman  for  a  wife." 

A  smile  played  about  the  mouth  of  the  young 
doctor.  After  a  few  moments,  he  said: 

"I  believe  you  are  right;  and,  although  I  have 
not  as  yet  asked  her,  for  to  do  so  before  I  have  a 
start  in  life  would  be  cheeky,  I  have  in  mind  a  girl 
whom  some  day  I  hope  to  make  my  wife." 

"You  want  to  remember  that  while  one  wants 
love,  that  alone  is  not  enough.  She  needs  to  be  a 
friend  and  companion,  and  then,  when  you  take  up 
your  life-work  together,  you  will  find  yourselves 
standing  on  a  foundation  which  grows  stronger  and 
stronger  as  the  years  go  by,"  answered  Dr.  War- 
ren. 

The  words  were  scarcely  uttered  when  Willa 
came  bounding  in.  She  had  tried  on  the  wet  grass 
outside  to  scrape  the  mud  from  her  boots;  but, 
notwithstanding  her  honest  efforts,  there  still  re- 
mained many  signs  of  her  morning's  play.  Now 
and  then  on  her  apron  were  to  be  seen  spatters  of 
muddy  water.  Her  cheeks  were  rosy.  Her  hat 
fallen  from  her  head  was  hanging  at  the  back  of 
her  neck  by  the  elastic  under  her  chin.  A  grimy 
spot  was  on  one  cheek,  her  chin  was  stained,  and 
her  hands,  brown  as  nuts,  were  filled  with  red  and 
white  clover  blossoms  on  which  the  drops  of  water 
were  still  clinging. 

"O,  papa,  I  'ike  my  'ubber  boots  a  lot.  See,  I 
went  ev'ywhere  and  never  dot  wet  at  all,"  she 


A  JOYOUS  RETURN  83 

cried. 

The  two  men  looked  at  her.  The  clovers  them- 
selves, with  all  their  fragrance  seemed  to  bring  no 
more  of  a  breath  from  heaven  than  did  this  rosy- 
cheeked,  happy  faced  child. 

"See,  papa,  I  dot  you  and  mama,  each  a  botay. 
Are  you  p'eased?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course,  papa  is  pleased.  Ask  mama  for  a 
dish  to  put  them  in  and  see  how  pretty  they  will 
look,"  he  answered,  appreciatively. 

She  started  for  the  kitchen  where  her  mother 
and  Hannah  were  at  work,  and  the  latter  found 
her  a  glass. 

"But  I  want  two.  Dis  is  papa's  and  dis  ma- 
ma's," said  the  child,  holding  up  for  Hannah's 
inspection  two  boquets  of  clover,  made  as  nearly 
alike  as  her  childish  judgment  would  allow. 

Hannah,  accordingly,  brought  out  another  glass, 
and  soon  Willa  had  placed  her  mother's  on  the 
dining-room  table;  with  measured  steps,  lest  she 
spill  the  water,  she  started  with  the  other  to  her 
papa's  study.  Both  he  and  Dr.  Livermore  looked 
up  as  she  entered;  they  noted  how  carefully  she 
held  the  glass,  and  how  cautiously  each  step  was 
taken,  but  Willa's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  clovers; 
the  rubber  boots  were  new,  and  the  rugs  were  not 
placed  just  as  they  were  at  grandma's  where  she 
had  been  for  the  past  five  weeks.  The  result  was, 
the  toe  of  one  of  those  new  rubber  boots  stubbed 
over  a  rug  that  lay  in  her  pathway,  and  Willa  went 
headlong. 


84  THE  PROBLEM 

The  two  men  sprang  from  their  chairs  in  the 
hope  of  saving  her,  but  they  were  too  late.  Clovers 
went  in  every  direction,  and  water  followed,  a  good 
part  of  which  went  on  Willa  herself.  So  tightly,how- 
ever  was  she  holding  the  glass  that,  as  she  fell,  she 
kept  her  hold  of  it,  although  to  do  so  caused  her 
to  receive  bumps  on  her  elbow  and  chin  that  might 
otherwise  have  been  averted. 

The  cry  that  came  from  her  brought  Mrs.  War- 
ren and  Hannah  to  the  scene.  The  Doctor  picked 
her  up  and  gently  tried  to  sooth  her;  while  Dr. 
Livermore  picked  up  the  pink  and  white  clovers 
which  those  tiny  fingers  had  gathered,  so  shortly 
before. 

While  the  Doctor  attended  to  the  bruises,  Mrs. 
Warren  hunted  up  a  dry  dress  and  apron,  and  some 
slippers  to  take  the  place  of  the  heavy  boots.  When 
these  were  donned  the  man  returned  to  his  study, 
and  sat  down  with  Willa  in  his  arms.  Although 
she  felt  better,  sigh  after  sigh  came  as  a  result  of 
her  fit  of  weeping;  and,  leaning  back  on  his  strong 
arm,  tired  with  her  journey  of  the  day  before  and 
the  morning's  tramp  about  the  place,  she  soon  fell 
asleep.  For  nearly  half  an  hour,  even  in  her  sleep, 
a  sob  shook  her  little  frame  and  her  arm  jerked. 
The  two  men  spoke  in  whispers  lest  they  wake  her. 
They  knew  that  a  quiet  nap  would  make  her  as 
good  as  new. 

"You  gave  me  advice  a  little  while  ago  about 
getting  married,"  said  Dr.  Livermore.  "If  ever  I 
am  married  and  am  the  father  of  a  child  as  sweet 


A  JOYOUS  RETURN  85 

as  your  Willa,  I  shall  be  the  happiest  man  in  all  the 
world.  Do  you  realize  that  she  is  a  remarkable 
child?" 

"Yes,  she  is  all  right,"  answered  the  other,  "and 
her  disposition  is  wonderful.  She  will  listen  to  one 
and  be  reasoned  with;  and  when  she  fully  under- 
stands a  thing,  she  invariably  chooses  what  she 
thinks  is  right." 

"And  some  children  would  be  spoiled  if  they 
were  made  as  much  of  as  she,  but  it  does  not  seem 
to  effect  her  in  the  least,  unless  it  is  to  bring  out 
love  from  her  for  everybody.  I  never  saw  a  child 
like  her,"  the  young  man  said,  shaking  his  head. 

In  the  midst  of  this  quiet  talk,  a  call  came  for 
the  Doctor.  Word  had  gotten  around  that  he  was 
home.  Although  he  answered  the  call  himself,  he 
insisted  that  Dr.  Livermore  drive  with  him,  a  dis- 
tance of  about  two  miles. 

The  Doctor  so  gently  laid  Willa  on  the  couch 
that  the  child  still  slept.  The  two  had  been  gone 
more  than  half  an  hour  when  she  opened  her  eyes 
and  found  that  she  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
NEW  LESSONS  TAUGHT 

AGAIN  Mabel  Fairbanks  came  to 
Woodrow,  and  never  had  the  place  been 
more  beautiful  than  during  the  month  of 
September,  in  which  she  visited  Mar- 
garet, the  Doctor,  and  Willa.  The  reds,  the  yel- 
lows, the  browns,  the  greens  all  blended  in  au- 
tumnal glory  such  as  is  seldom  seen.  The  tired, 
worn  out  girl,  pale  from  care,  trouble  and  worry 
seemed  to  catch  something  of  the  splendor  about 
her;  a  color  came  to  her  cheeks,  and  a  light  and 
sparkle  to  her  eyes  such  as  would  have  surprised 
her  friends  in  Ripley.  Again,  she  took  those  de- 
lightful drives  here  and  there  in  Woodrow;  and, 
when  not  driving  hour  after  hour  was  spent  with 
Willa  in  the  open  air,  for  the  Doctor  had  insisted 
on  her  staying  out  of  doors  as  much  as  possible. 
However,  with  the  beauty  of  Woodrow  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  companionship  of  a  child  as  original, 
clever,  and  attractive  as  Willa  on  the  other,  obey- 
ing the  Doctor's  orders  was  not  so  difficult  a  task. 
Sometimes,  long  strolls  were  taken,  when  lunch 
boxes  were  in  evidence;  sometimes  a  fishing  trip 
was  enjoyed,  for  the  river  ran  within  a  mile  of  the 
Doctor's  house.  It  would  have  been  hard,  indeed, 
for  an  onlooker  to  have  told  which  of  the  two  was 
getting  the  more  enjoyment  from  the  little  outing. 

86 


NEW  LESSONS  TAUGHT  87 

Although  only  once  did  they  catch  anything,  they 
certainly  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  speckled 
trout  darting  up  and  down,  in  and  out,  beneath  the 
water;  and,  as  though  imbued  with  the  true  Ike 
Walton  spirit  they  found  joy  in  fishing  other  than 
the  reward  which  is  usually  expected. 

These  were  happy  days  for  Mabel,  as  well  as  for 
her  loyal  friends  who  took  such  keen  pleasure  in 
watching  from  day  to  day  the  change  that  was  tak- 
ing place  in  her.  During  those  days  she  surely 
learned  to  appreciate  the  true  worth  of  her  two  old 
friends,  and  her  new  little  friend  as  never  before. 

One  day  when  she  had  been  there  about  two 
weeks,  she  and  Willa  returned  from  one  of  their 
tramps,  not  a  very  long  one,  but  a  pleasant  one, 
and  joined  Mrs.  Warren  who  sat  on  the  porch 
hemming  a  dainty  lawn  apron  for  Willa.  This 
had  to  be  laid  aside  as  Willa  came  bounding  to 
her,  both  hands  filled  with  treasures  such  as  mosses 
and  gorgeous  leaves  of  indescribable  beauty,  fresh- 
ly gathered  from  the  woods.  Willa's  eye  was  par- 
ticularly well  trained  for  a  child  of  her  years, 
largely  due  to  the  fact  that  the  spring  before  her 
father  had  taken  her  to  the  woods,  where  together 
they  had  tried,  on  one  day,  to  see  how  many  kinds 
of  mosses  they  could  find;  on  another,  how  many 
kinds  of  ferns,  and  so  on  until  Willa's  powers  of 
perception  manifested  themselves  in  such  a  way  as 
to  surprise  even  the  Doctor.  The  lessons  learned 
then  had  come  with  Willa  through  the  intervening 
days  and  months;  until  now,  in  her  tramps  with 


88  THE  PROBLEM 

Mabel,  they  again  had  a  chance  to  show  them- 
selves, furnishing  delight  for  the  girl  so  much  older 
in  years,  and  yet  from  this  point  of  view  no  more 
alert  or  appreciative  than  this  wee  lady  of  four 
summers. 

As  the  child  bestowed  these  "woodsy"  treasures 
on  her  mother,  the  latter  admired  the  selection  of 
the  little  girl  before  her  who  was  eagerly  waiting 
for  words  of  appreciation  and  approval. 

Before  they  were  scarcely  aware  of  the  fact,  it 
was  supper  time.  As  Mrs.  Warren  gathered  up 
her  sewing  and  work  box,  she  saw  among  the  spools 
of  cotton  a  thimble  belonging  to  Hannah.  Having 
at  that  moment  thought  of  something  she  wished 
to  say  to  Mabel  and  which  she  did  not  wish  Willa  to 
hear,  she  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  and 
said:  "Here  is  Hannah's  thimble  that  she  left 
yesterday.  Doesn't  Willa  want  to  run  down  with 
it?" 

Willa  was  very  fond  of  visiting  Hannah,  and 
was  at  once  ready  to  comply  with  her  mother's  sug- 
gestion. Taking  the  thimble  she  slipped  it  over 
one  of  her  little  fingers,  and  shut  her  hand  tightly 
lest  she  lose  it.  For  the  time  being,  both  Mrs.  War- 
ren and  Mabel  forgot  the  child ;  they  did  not  think 
of  her  again  until  they  saw  the  Doctor  drive  into 
the  yard,  and  Willa,  sitting  beside  him,  with  both 
her  little  hands  locked  around  his  arm. 

Si,  who  was  in  the  shed,  came  out  to  put  up  the 
horse,  and  as  the  Doctor  lifted  Willa  from  the  bug- 
gy, she  put  her  chubby  hand  into  the  pocket  of  her 


NEW  LESSONS  TAUGHT  89 

apron  and  drew  out  a  tiny,  delicate  shell.  As  they 
went  into  the  house  together,  she  exclaimed :  "See, 
isn't  it  pretty?" 

"A  shell?  Hannah  give  you  that?"  asked  her 
father,  taking  the  shell  from  her  and  examining  it. 

"No,  'twas  in  her  box  wiv  de  fread  when  I  put 
de  finable  back,"  quickly  replied  Willa. 

"And  did  she  give  it  to  you,  or  did  you  just  take 
it?"  asked  the  Doctor,  earnestly. 

"Why,  I  toot  it.  Ain't  it  pretty?"  enquired  the 
child  innocently. 

The  Doctor  did  not  answer.  He  put  the  shell 
into  his  pocket,  and  somehow  Willa  began  to  feel 
that  something  was  not  right,  although  she  could 
not  have  told  what.  He  said  nothing  further  on 
the  subject  until  the  next  morning,  although  he  had 
lain  awake  more  than  one  hour  in  the  night  think- 
ing the  matter  over,  and  wondering  what  he  ought 
to  do.  He  was  conscious  that  Willa  did  not  know 
the  meaning  of  the  word  "steal,"  but  how  was  he 
to  teach  her?  Her  sense  of  right  and  wrong  had 
always  been  most  acute  for  a  child  of  her  years,  but 
here  was  a  new  problem  and  one  which  must  be 
faced  at  once.  It  was  not  a  question  of  the  value 
of  the  shell,  or  of  Hannah's  willingness  that  the 
child  should  have  it,  but  of  the  lesson  involved 
which  was  just  the  same  as  though  a  million  dol- 
lars had  been  taken. 

At  last  he  felt  he  had  a  solution  to  his  present 
problem.  At  any  rate,  it  was  worth  trying  and  he 
hoped  for  the  best.  He  remembered  that  Willa 


90  THE  PROBLEM 

was  learning  to  read.  Before  she  was  three  years 
old  she  had  learned  the  letters  from  her  colored 
blocks  with  which  she  played,  and  during  the  past 
year  she  had  read  her  First  Reader  nearly  through. 
When  morning  came,  he  took  her  on  his  knee  in  his 
study,  took  down  the  Bible,  and  explained  to  her 
that  if  he  should  give  her  that  book  it  would  be 
hers;  but,  if  she  took  it  without  asking  him  it 
would  still  be  his,  and  she  would  be  stealing.  The 
use  of  two  or  three  illustrations  enabled  her  to  see 
that  there  was  a  difference  between  receiving  some- 
thing as  a  gift,  and  stealing,  or  taking,  the  same 
thing.  Then,  he  gently  said,  "What  book  is  this, 
Willa?" 

"It's  de  Bible,"  she  promptly  answered. 

"Who  gave  us  the  Bible?  Whose  words  do  we 
find  in  it?"  he  asked. 

"Dod's  words." 

"Now,  I  want  to  show  you  something,"  he  said, 
turning  to  the  Ten  Commandments,  from  which  he 
picked  out  the  seventh  one  and  asked  her  to  look  at 
it  with  him.  With  a  little  help  in  sounding  the 
letters,  Willa  was  able  to  read  the  commandment 
for  herself.  When  she  had  finished,  he  said,  "Now, 
what  does  that  say,  Willa?" 

"Thou  s'alt  not  steal,"  she  read. 

"And  who  said  that?  Who  tells  us  that  we 
must  not  steal?"  he  asked. 

"Dod.  O,  papa,  me  didn't  know  Dod  said  not 
to  steal.  Baby  never  steal  aden,  papa,  never.  What 
else  does  Dod  say?" 


NEW  LESSONS  TAUGHT  91 

"I  think  this  is  lesson  enough  for  this  morning, 
dear.  But  another  time  you  come  to  papa  when 
you  want  to  know  if  something  is  right  or  wrong, 
and  papa  will  tell  you.  You  won't  forget,  will 
you?" 

"No,  papa,  me  always  'member  what  Dod  said," 
she  answered. 

"And  you  are  sorry  that  you  took  the  shell  from 
Hannah?"  he  asked. 

"Me  didn't  tate  it  from  Hannah.  Me  toot  it 
from  de  bastit,"  said  Willa. 

The  big  man  tried  to  keep  from  smiling  as  he 
said,  "I  know,  dear,  that  the  shell  was  in  the  basket, 
but  it  belonged  to  Hannah,  you  know,  and  you  are 
sorry  aren't  you?" 

"Me  tate  it  straight  back,  papa,  and  me  tell 
Hannah  baby  didn't  know  what  Dod  said,"  an- 
swered Willa. 

The  Doctor  felt  relieved.  This  was  just  what 
he  had  been  leading  up  to,  and  rather  feared  lest 
she  find  the  task  a  hard  one.  He  now  saw  that  her 
dread  of  displeasing  God  was  so  great  that  the 
embarrassment  of  confessing  her  fault  to  Hannah 
seemed  trivial  indeed. 

As  the  Doctor  took  the  shell  from  his  pocket 
and  gave  it  to  her,  he  folded  her  in  his  arms  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  "Now  you  take  this  to 
Hannah  and  tell  her  all  about  it,  and  then  God 
will  be  pleased  with  Willa,  again." 

"But  Dod  tan't  spe't  a  little  dirl  lite  me  to  know 
all  dat's  in  a  dreat  bid  Bible,  tan  He,  papa?" 


92  THE  PROBLEM 

"No,  but  he  does  want  her  to  learn,  and  to  do 
the  best  she  knows,  doesn't  He?" 

"O'  tourse,  and  me  never  do  it  den,  papa,"  she 
said,  earnestly. 

"Papa  knows  you  won't.  Now  run  along  like  a 
little  lady,"  said  the  Doctor. 

As  Willa  ran  out,  she  passed  her  mother  and 
Mabel  in  the  kitchen  as  though  nothing  unusual 
had  happened.  She  did  not  know  that,  in  the 
meantime,  her  mother  had  been  down  to  Hannah's, 
had  told  her  all  about  it,  and  asked  her  when  Willa 
should  come  not  to  give  her  the  shell  lest  the  les- 
son learned  might  soon  be  forgotten.  Knowing 
as  they  did  how  fond  Hannah  was  of  Willa,  both 
Mrs.  Warren  and  the  Doctor  feared  that  in  her 
pity  for  the  child  she  might  be  tempted  to  do  the 
very  thing  which  she  ought  not  to  do,  and  hence  it 
was  agreed  between  them  that  Hannah  should  be 
prepared.  The  result  was  that  in  less  than  five 
minutes  Willa  was  back,  bright  and  happy,  and 
eating  one  of  Hannah's  caraway  cookies.  No  one 
referred  to  the  incident,  but  the  remembrance  of  it 
stayed  in  the  minds  of  all,  especially  in  the  mind  of 
Willa,  who  never  forgot  the  lesson  that  her  father 
had  so  tenderly  taught  her  that  morning. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  INVITATION 

,  MARGARET,  what  shall  I  do?" 
cried  Mabel. 

Mrs.  Warren  glanced  down  the 
pathway  and  saw  her  friend  coming 
toward  the  house,  wearing  an  excited,  eager  ex- 
pression on  her  face.  Willa  ran  along  by  her  side, 
saying,  "Don'  go,  Auntie  Mabel.  P'ease  don'  go." 
Mrs.  Warren  caught  Willa's  words,  and,  look- 
ing at  the  open  letter  in  Mabel's  hands,  said: 
"They  haven't  sent  for  you  to  begin  work,  have 
they?" 

"No,  it's  uncle  Dick.     Just  listen!" 
And  Mabel  proceeded  to  read  aloud  the  letter 
which  had  completely  upset  her,  and  which  ran  as 
follows : 

"MY  DEAR  MABEL: — 

Wife  and  I  have  a  plan.  It's  about  you,  only 
you  are  to  have  nothing  to  say  concerning  it.  You 
have  only  to  help  in  carrying  it  out.  Here  is  the 
plan,  and  you  just  see  if  it  isn't  the  jolliest  one  that 
could  be  thought  of." 

"If  that  doesn't  sound  just  like  uncle  Dick!" 
said  Mabel,  and  then  she  continued : 

"As  soon  as  you  can  straighten  things  out  there, 
if  they  must  be  straightened,  you  pack  up  your 

93 


94  THE  PROBLEM 

duds  and  come  out  to  spend  the  winter  with  us.  It 
will  do  you  more  good  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  and  to  show  you  that  we  do  not  mean  to 
take  'no'  for  an  answer,  we  are  enclosing  check  for 
$200.  That  will  get  you  anything  you  need,  and 
buy  your  ticket.  There  will  be  nothing  more  for 
you  to  think  of  until  you  get  here. 

"We  are  thinking  that  you  will  probably  start 
by  the  ist  of  October,  anyway.  You  just  tell  that 
place  that  wants  you  for  matron  that  you  can't 
and  won't  take  it,  or  at  least  not  until  another 
spring.  If  they  choose  to  hold  the  offer  open  until 
then,  well  and  good.  If  not,  that  settles  it.  You 
must  come  anyway. 

"Lots  of  love  from 

"UNCLE  DICK." 

"There !"  exclaimed  Mabel,  with  a  sigh  as  she 
threw  herself  into  one  of  the  easy  chairs  on  the 
porch.  "What  shall  I  do?" 

"Do?"  answered  Margaret.  "There  is  only  one 
thing  to  do  and  that  is  to  go,  of  course.  It  will  do 
you  so  much  good,  Mabel.  It  will  be  the  time  of 
your  life." 

Willa,  not  understanding  the  full  purport  of  the 
letter  or  even  of  her  mother's  answer,  ran  to  her 
mother,  saying,  "P'ease,  mama,  don'  send  auntie 
Mabel  way." 

"Bless  you,  dear,  mama  is  not  sending  her 
away,"  said  her  mother,  who  then  took  Willa  on 
her  knee  and  explained  the  kindness  of  the  uncle, 


THE  INVITATION  95 

the  good  the  change  would  do  auntie  Mabel;  and 
then,  appealing  to  the  child's  sense  of  unselfishness, 
she  led  her  to  see  that  it  was  for  Mabel's  good,  and 
the  more  they  loved  her,  the  more  they  should  want 
her  to  go. 

The  child  on  seeing  the  situation,  slipped  from 
her  mother's  knee  and  went  slowly  to  Mabel's  side. 
Stretching  up  both  plump  arms  to  encircle  Mabel's 
neck,  she  said: 

"Willa  wants  auntie  Mabel  go,  too.  Willa 
wants  her  to  be  happy  and  well,  and  has  f'owers 
all  winter,  an'  dood  time  ev'y  day,  and  then  auntie 
Mabel'll  come  back  some  other  day?"  she  asked, 
anxiously. 

"Yes,  dear,"  answered  Mabel  folding  her  arms 
tightly  about  Willa  and  kissing  her. 

"But  what  will  auntie  Mabel  do  without  you?" 
she  asked  tenderly.  "Will  you  come  with  me?" 

"Why,  Willa  touldn't  go.  Willa  dot  to  teep 
papa  and  mama  tompany.  Who'd  yub  mama's 
headache  way  when  papa's  gone?  And  who'd 
det  papa's  s'ippers  for  him,  and  do  all  the  other 
fings?" 

"Precious!"  exclaimed  Mabel,  still  holding  her. 
"Auntie  Mabel  forgot,  didn't  she,  dear,  that  papa 
and  mama  couldn't  spare  you?" 

"Des  she  must  have.  She'll  have  to  det  a  little 
dirl  o'  her  own,  won't  she,  mama?" 

Willa  at  that  moment  espied  their  team  in  the 
distance,  and  ran  away  to  meet  it. 

The  Doctor  on  his  arrival  was  soon  told  of  Ma- 


96  THE  PROBLEM 

bel's  good  fortune,  and  he,  too,  endeavored  to 
make  her  feel  that  there  was  no  alternative.  The 
trip  would  mean  much  to  her,  and  he  felt  that  uncle 
Dick's  invitation  was  simply  God's  plan  for  bless- 
ing Mabel,  and  in  his  opinion  she  must  not  refuse. 

Mabel  seriously  weighed  the  pro  and  con  of  the 
situation,  even  though  her  heart  was  agreeing  to 
all  that  her  friends  said.  At  last  it  was  decided 
that  she  should  write  to  the  trustees  of  the  "Home" 
to  see  what  they  would  say.  September  was  al- 
ready more  than  half  gone.  It  was  useless  for  her 
to  think  of  starting  by  the  first  of  the  following 
month;  and,  even  if  she  started  by  the  middle,  she 
must  shorten  her  visit  in  Woodrow,  must  leave  by 
the  coming  Saturday  at  the  latest.  This  was  Mon- 
day. She  felt  that  by  Friday  she  should  have  an 
answer  informing  her  of  whatever  action  the  trus- 
tees might  choose  to  take.  Until  that  letter  came, 
she  felt  she  could  not  come  to  any  final  conclusion. 

Em  and  Hallie  were  also  written;  for  they,  to 
her,  presented  the  greatest  obstacle.  How  could 
she  leave  them?  was  the  question  that  she  asked 
herself  many  times  a  day. 

Never  were  Mabel  and  Willa  more  vigilant  in 
watching  the  mails  than  they  were  during  those 
days  that  followed.  Mabel  realized  how  much 
they  meant  to  her.  Secretly  she  had  determined 
that,  unless  the  trustees  of  the  "Home"  were  will- 
ing to  hold  the  position  until  spring,  she  would  not 
go  to  uncle  Dick's.  It  was  almost  too  much  to  ex- 
pect, and  yet,  somehow,  inside,  she  felt  that  an  an- 


THE  INVITATION  9? 

swer  in  the  affirmative  would  come. 

The  morning  mail  on  Friday  brought  the  looked 
for  letter,  which  read  : 

"DEAR  Miss  FAIRBANKS: 

"Your  letter  of  the  8th  rec'd.  and  duly  consid- 
ered by  the  Board.  Inasmuch  as  we  look  to  you 
for  a  permanent  engagement  at  the  "Home,"  when 
you  do  undertake  its  duties,  we  have  secured  the 
consent  of  our  temporary  supply,  Mrs.  Sullivan,  to 
remain  during  the  winter. 

"Trusting  that  this  action  meets  your  wishes,  and 
that  the  months  spent  in  California  may  prove  ben- 
eficial to  you,  we  are, 

"Respectfully  yours, 

(Sd.) Sec." 

"Weren't  they  good?"  asked  Mabel,  emphasiz- 
ing each  word. 

In  the  hours  that  followed,  she  was  first  happy 
and  then  sad — happy  at  the  good  fortune  that  had 
befallen  her,  and  sad  at  the  thoughts  of  first  leav- 
ing these  fond  friends ;  and  then,  a  little  later,  her 
two  sisters  and  everything  that  had  been  a  part  of 
her  very  life  for  so  many  years.  She  felt  that  she 
must  leave  Woodrow  on  the  following  day.  In 
vain  did  the  Doctor  and  Margaret  urge  her  to  stay 
"just  one  more  Sunday,"  as  they  said.  No  thought, 
however,  of  accepting  the  invitation  entered  her 
mind  until  she  accidentally  passed  the  door  of 
Margaret's  room,  where  she  saw  Willa  kneeling  by 


98  THE  PROBLEM 

the  side  of  her  little  bed  and  heard  the  honest, 
childish  voice  as  it  said : 

"O,  Dod,  I  do  wants  auntie  Mabel  stay  anuzzer 
Sunday.  P'ease,  Dod,  tell  her  to  stay,  'tause  auntie 
Mabel'll  mind  you,  but  she  won't  mind  us.  Tell 
her  hard,  Dod,  so  she'll  be  sure  to  hear.  Amen." 

The  child  still  knelt  with  her  head  buried  in 
the  white  spread  covering  the  little  bed,  and  Mabel 
passed  on. 

God  had  told  her  "hard,"  and  Mabel  would 
stay.  When  alone  with  the  Doctor  and  Margaret, 
she  told  them  of  Willa's  prayer  and  of  her  changed 
plans.  She  would  stay  with  them  until  Monday. 

"I  never  saw  a  child  with  such  faith  in  prayer 
as  she  has,"  said  Mabel,  "and  I  won't  be  the  means 
of  shaking  that  faith ;  besides,  I  think  I  am  rather 
glad  to  help  God  to  answer." 

When  Mrs.  Warren  told  the  good  news  to  Wil- 
la,  she  said:  "I  guess  you  are  surprised  and  happy 
now,  aren't  you?" 

"O,  I's  happy,  mama,  but  I  ain't  s'prised  any, 
'tause  I  jest  told  Dod  'bout  it,  and  asked  Him  to 
tell  auntie  Mabel  to  stay,  and  I  knew  He  would 
do  it  somehow  or  uzzer." 

The  confident  tone  itself  made  both  her  com- 
panions think  of  that  verse :  "All  things  whatso- 
ever ye  shall  ask  in  prayer,  believing,  ye  shall  re- 


ceive." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

OLD  MEMORIES 

DR.  LIVERMORE  spent  his  vacation 
at  his  old  home  in  Springdale.  He  had 
heard  of  a  good  opening  in  Canton, 
and  was  to  go  to  his  new  field  early  in 
September. 

One  day  during  his  stay  at  home,  his  father 
came  to  his  room  and  the  two  had  a  long  talk  to- 
gether. The  young  doctor  stood  with  his  elbow 
resting  on  the  middle  sash  of  one  of  the  windows. 
He  watched  his  father  carefully  as  he  paced  back 
and  forth,  both  hands  tucked  deep  into  his  pockets, 
while  between  his  teeth  was  a  butt  of  a  cigar,  which, 
if  allowed  to  burn  much  longer,  would  endanger 
his  stubby  mustache.  However,  the  old  man  kept 
on,  apparently  unmindful  that  a  spark  remained 
at  the  end  of  the  one  cigar  in  which  he  daily  in- 
dulged. 

At  heart,  the  old  man  was  not  one  whit  more 
temperate  than  many  other  men  who  daily  indulge 
in  a  half  dozen  or  more;  for,  the  truth  is,  at  one 
time  he  was  a  cigar  fiend,  and  had  only  ceased  to 
be  such  at  the  strict  command  of  his  family  phy- 
sician, who  discovered  that  the  man  was  already 
suffering  from  a  "tobacco  heart."  The  man  had 
used  tobacco  in  some  form  ever  since  he  could  re- 
member, and  it  was  a  mystery  to  all  why  his  only 

99 


ioo  THE  PROBLEM 

son,  reared  in  such  an  atmosphere,  had  not  fallen 
a  victim  to  the  habit.  On  the  other  hand,  Henry, 
all  through  his  college  days,  had  stood  the  test ;  in 
fact,  it  was  rather  repulsive  to  him.  Possibly,  he 
had  seen  so  much  of  it  at  times  when  his  mother 
was  saving  in  every  conceivable  way,  in  order  that 
he  himself  might  finish  the  college  course  which  he 
had  begun,  that  his  eyes  had  been  opened  to  the 
saving  of  money  on  the  one  hand  and  the  burning 
of  it  on  the  other ;  or  possibly  it  was  all  this,  inten- 
sified by  his  having  unintentionally  overheard  when 
a  young  lad  the  conversation  of  two  ladies  for 
whom  he  had  great  admiration  and  respect,  the  re- 
mark of  one  being:  "If  men  who  use  tobacco  only 
half  realized  how  unclean  it  makes  them  seem  to 
others  and  how  offensive  the  smell  is,  I  am  sure 
they  never  would  have  begun."  Whether  one  or 
all  of  these  reasons  played  a  part  in  influencing  the 
the  young  man,  he  certainly  never  wavered. 

On  this  day  in  question,  as  the  father  paced  back 
and  forth  in  his  son's  room,  he  halted  on  the  hearth 
to  knock  the  ashes  from  his  cigar.  As  he  did  so, 
he  noticed  one  of  the  pictures  on  Henry's  mantle. 
The  man  stood  staring  at  the  face  of  a  child,  ap- 
parently, three  or  four  years  of  age.  After  looking 
at  it  intently  for  several  seconds,  he  took  it  from 
the  mantle,  and  carried  it  to  the  window  in  order 
to  get  a  closer  view.  Henry  watched  him  intently. 
The  picture  was  an  exact  likeness  of  Willa,  and  the 
one  Henry  had  brought  from  Woodrow.  Not  a 
word  had  been  said  by  him  concerning  any  re- 


OLD  MEMORIES  101 

semblance  he  had  discovered ;  and  yet,  he  had  pur- 
posely left  the  photograph  on  his  mantle  to  see  if 
another  might  find  the  same  resemblance.  Several 
minutes  passed. 

"Where  did  you  get  this?"  the  old  man  asked, 
almost  gruffly. 

"O,  that  picture?  That  is  Willa  Warren,  the 
Doctor's  little  girl,"  Henry  answered,  lightly.  "She 
is  one  of  the  brightest  little  tots  I  ever  saw,"  he 
added,  eyeing  his  father,  sharply. 

"Dr.  Warren's,  eh?  Well,  who's  the  mother?" 
asked  the  old  man. 

"That's  a  funny  question.  She  is  Dr.  Warren's 
wife,  of  course,"  answered  Henry,  as  though  no 
thought  of  the  true  purport  of  his  father's  ques- 
tion had  entered  his  mind. 

"Humph !  Let  her  be  his  wife,  but  who  was  she 
before  she  was  married?" 

"Miss  Margaret  Holway,  only  child  of  one  of 
the  bankers  at  Ripley,"  Henry  answered. 

"Mighty  strange !"  exclaimed  his  father. 

"What's  strange?"  quiried  Henry,  innocently. 

"Why,  the  likeness,  boy  the  likeness!" 

"What  likeness,  father?"  asked  Henry. 

"O,  the  deuce,  boy!  Look  at  that  now.  Then 
look  at  this,"  he  said,  drawing  from  his  pocket  a 
childish  picture  of  his  sister  Emily. 

This  is  what  Henry  had  wanted.  He  had 
wished  to  see  the  two  together. 

"They  do  look  alike.    How  strange  !"  he  said. 

"Strange?    I  don't  see  how  any  child  could  look 


102  THE  PROBLEM 

more  like  another  than  this  looks  like  little  Emily. 
Are  you  sure — there  is — no  mistake?"  he  asked, 
eagerly. 

"I  am  very  sure,  father.  Now  that  you,  too,  have 
seen  the  resemblance  I  confess  that  I  noticed  it  one 
day  when  I  was  in  Woodrow  and  the  folks  in  Rip- 
ley.  Since  my  return  I  have  looked  for  this  picture 
of  aunt  Em,  but  could  not  find  it,  so  I  left  this  one 
of  Willa  out,  for  I  wanted  you  to  see  it.  But 
there  is  no  mistake,  nothing  on  which  to  build.  One 
day  I  found  the  family  Bible  of  the  Doctor's,  and 
looked  back  over  all  the  names  entered,  and  there 
was  not  one  in  any  way  connected  with  our  family. 
I  have  since  heard  a  good  deal  of  the  Holways,  and 
it  is  no  use;  there  is  not  the  slightest  ground  for 
hope,  but  I  never  saw  a  dearer  child,  and  never 
parents  who  loved  a  child  more,"  answered  Henry. 

A  sigh  was  his  father's  only  answer.  He  passed 
Willa's  picture  to  Henry,  and  replaced  that  of  his 
sister  in  his  inner  vest  pocket. 

"I  would  like  to  see  her,"  he  at  last  exclaimed. 
"It  seems  as  though  a  child  who  looks  so  much  like 
Em  must  be  like  her,  too.  A  child  never  lived  with 
more  winning  ways  than  Emily  Livermore  had 
when  she  was  the  age  of  this  one.  Perhaps  I  no- 
ticed them  more  than  most  brothers  would  have 
because  she  was  a  doll  to  me.  Why,  I  was  twenty 
when  Emily  was  born,  and  she  thought  so  much  of 
her  "Bud"  as  she  used  to  call  me.  We  never  had 
a  break  until — that — pennyweight  came  along. 
What  a  fool  I  was!  I  thought  I  knew  my  little 


OLD  MEMORIES  103 

Em,  but  I  didn't,  I  didn't.  I  thought  if  father  and 
I  stood  firm  on  the  property,  it  would  hold  her, 
but  she  loved  him — loved  him !  If  I  could  only 
find  her!"  the  old  man  said,  shaking  his  head  and 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  old  man  rambled  on,  apparently  unmind- 
ful of  his  son's  presence,  who,  with  all  his  interest 
and  sympathy  could  not  comprehend  his  father's 
feelings  when,  for  a  moment,  against  the  horizon 
he  thought  he  had  detected  the  ship  of  hope  headed 
toward  him,  only  to  discover  that  what  seemed  so 
promising  was  only  the  outspread  wings  of  a  dis- 
tant bird  on  his  way  to  that  mysterious  "realm  of 
somewhere."  Would  it  ever  return? 


CHAPTER  XVII 
MUTUAL  FRIENDS 

YOUNG  Henry  Livermore,  M.  D.,  had 
been  in  Canton  a  week,  and  thus  far 
had  boarded  at  one  of  the  two  hotels 
which  the  place  afforded.    Both  because 
Henry  was  naturally  a  lover  of  home  life  and  be- 
cause of  his  not  overcrowded  pocketbook,  he  then 
made  inquiries  regarding  good  board  in  either  a 
private  family  or  some  respectable  boarding  house. 
Several  places  were  recommended,  but  as  the  name 
of  "Mrs.  Brackett"  was  mentioned  more  frequent- 
ly than  any  other,  he  called  to  see  her. 

Mrs.  Brackett  was  a  widow  about  forty-five 
years  of  age,  fleshy,  light  complexioned,  and  one 
who  knew  so  well  how  to  cook  a  meal  for  hungry 
men  and  women  that  her  extra  rooms  were  never 
long  vacant,  nor  her  table  lonesome  for  lack  of 
company.  The  young  man  was  not  long  in  engag- 
ing both  room  and  board,  and  promised  to  move 
on  the  following  day,  which  he  did,  little  dream- 
ing at  the  time,  nor  in  fact  for  several  days  after- 
ward, the  nature  of  the  surprise  that  awaited  him. 
Nevertheless,  the  day  came  when  he  learned  that 
two  of  Mrs.  Brackett's  boarders  were  none  other 
than  Emily  and  Hallie  Fairbanks  of  Ripley;  and 
even  then,  several  days  passed  before  the  three  dis- 
covered that  they  had  friends  in  common.  The 

104 


MUTUAL  FRIENDS  105 

discovery  certainly  tended  to  form  a  cord  of  friend- 
ship between  them  stronger,  perhaps,  than  it  would 
otherwise  have  been.  Many  things  they  had  of 
common  interest.  One  subject  was  ever  a  welcome 
one  to  all — the  subject  of  Willa  Warren;  for  the 
three  had  seen  and  known  her,  and  more  than  that, 
had  loved  her. 

Before  long  Dr.  Livermore  learned  through  oth- 
ers of  the  great  sorrow  that  had  so  recently  befallen 
the  two  sisters,  which  accounted  for  the  black  they 
continually  wore.  Possibly  the  knowledge  of  this 
trouble  under  which  the  two  girls  bore  up  so  brave- 
ly had  a  part  to  play  in  increasing  the  interest 
which  he  soon  had  in  them.  The  young  man  con- 
scientiously tried  to  be  impartial.  During  the  fall 
months,  when  the  leaves  were  at  the  height  of 
their  glory — especially  to  one  who  had  not  visited 
Woodrow  in  autumn — if  he  was  called  on  a  Sat- 
urday morning  to  drive  a  few  miles  into  the  coun- 
try, he  invited  the  Misses  Fairbanks  to  accompany 
him.  By  no  outward  sign  did  he  show  preference 
for  the  company  of  either,  but  secretly — for  he 
dared  not  admit  it  even  to  himself,  he  found  he 
possessed  a  deeper  interest  in  Emily  than  even  he 
himself  would  wish.  Was  he  not  simply  waiting 
until  he  should  be  in  a  position  financially  to  ask 
another  girl  to  marry  him  ?  Had  he  not  long  felt 
more  than  a  passing  interest  in  Madeline  Lamson? 
What  did  this  new  interest  mean?  Did  he  not 
know  his  own  mind?  Was  he  fickle?  What  was 
the  trouble  ? 


io6  THE  PROBLEM 

Again  and  again,  he  asked  himself  these  ques- 
tions. He  must  wait  and  see.  In  the  meantime  he 
felt  thankful  that  the  step,  which  many  times  he 
had  longed  to  take,  had  never  been  taken;  for,  if 
it  should  prove  that  he  had  been  mistaken  in  the 
past,  he  would  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  he  had  not  wronged  another.  In  the  weeks 
that  followed,  Dr.  Livermore  kept  a  close  watch 
of  himself,  and  perhaps  an  equally  close  watch  of 
Miss  Emily. 

The  young  man  soon  met  with  favor  throughout 
the  town  of  Canton.  He  was  invited  to  all  the 
social  functions;  but  when  he  discovered  that  his 
two  friends  were  never  present,  he  wondered  if 
they  were  not  invited,  or  if  they  shrank  from  going 
into  public  so  soon  after  the  sorrow  that  had  come 
into  their  lives.  He  watched  for  some  remark  to 
be  dropped  that  might  throw  light  on  the  subject, 
but  none  came.  Finally,  he  began  to  be  numbered 
among  the  absent;  outwardly,  by  reason  of  a  sud- 
den call  from  a  distance,  when  in  reality  he  was 
merely  driving  to  Four  Corners  and  back,  or  to 
Maple  Grove  and  back. 

Only  two  people,  however,  even  suspected  the 
carrying  out  of  this  little  part  by  the  young  Doc- 
tor. At  school  Emily  and  Hallie  invariably  heard 
these  social  events  discussed,  both  previous  to  and 
the  day  following.  If  the  young  man  was  absent, 
the  fact  was  always,  unintentionally,  made  known 
to  them.  Why  should  they  think  of  this  little  act 
of  caprice  on  his  part?  Neither  could  have  told, 


MUTUAL  FRIENDS  107 

and  yet  they  felt  sure  they  were  right,  and  so  they 
were,  although  the  people  of  Canton  were  much 
longer  in  guessing  the  truth. 

Before  Mabel's  departure  they  insisted  on  her 
spending  a  week  with  them,  which  visit  resulted  in 
Mabel,  also,  meeting  Dr.  Livermore.  Under  the 
conditions,  he  scarcely  seemed  a  stranger  to  her, 
even  at  first,  so  attracted  had  they  both  been  to  the 
town  of  Woodrow,  where  such  happy,  helpful 
weeks  for  both  had  been  spent.  It  was  already  the 
middle  of  October,  and  this  last  week  of  Mabel's 
went  all  too  quickly.  The  two  sisters  certainly 
made  the  most  of  mornings  and  nights,  as  well  as 
the  brief  noon  hours.  However,  betwixt  and  be- 
between,  Mabel  had  no  time  to  be  lonely;  for 
nearly  everyone  in  the  house  felt  some  desire  to 
have  a  part  in  the  entertainment  of  this  elder  sis- 
ter who  thus  far  had  seen  so  little  real  pleasure, 
and  Dr.  Livermore  was  no  exception.  He  had  the 
advantage  over  the  others,  however,  for  he  was 
able  to  let  her  get  glimpses  here  and  there  about 
the  town,  and  together  they  had  a  chance  to  com- 
pare it  with  their  loved  Woodrow.  There  was  no 
simple  pleasure  that  Mabel  could  put  before  driv- 
ing. It  seemed  strange  to  her  now  that  she  should 
be  having  drives  in  Canton  when  she  had  thought 
that  this  season's  pleasure  in  that  direction  was  over 
on  her  departure  from  Woodrow. 

The  people  at  Mrs.  Brackett's  took  it  merely  as 
a  matter  of  fact — this  friendship  between  Dr.  Liv- 
ermore and  the  two  young  ladies  in  black.  Some 


io8  THE  PROBLEM 

had  it  that  they  were  relatives,  some  this,  some 
that,  but  one  good  old  Sallie  Simmons  said:  "It's 
jist  a  common  sinse  sort  o'  a  likin'  fer  one  anither." 
However,  if  that  were  the  case,  there  was  still  a 
mystery  to  solve,  and  that  was,  "For  which  one  of 
the  girls  in  black  was  the  Doctor's  'common  sinse 
likin' '  the  stronger?" 

Thus  had  Mabel  found  them,  and  thus  she  left 
them.  When  the  time  of  separation  came,  not  one 
of  them  could  speak.  Was  good  awaiting  them, 
or  was  ill  lying  ahead  in  their  pathway  to  be  en- 
countered and  battled  with  before  they  next  should 
meet?  Each  knew  that  this  thought  was  in  the 
minds  of  the  others,  and  the  knowledge,  blended 
with  her  own  thoughts,  made  speech  impossible. 

Who  so  hardened,  who  so  far  down,  that  he 
cannot  hear  even  the  echo  of  a  note  of  love,  wheth- 
er sounded  on  the  mountain  top,  or  down  in  the 
valley?  Whether  sounded  by  human  lips,  or  simply 
by  the  passing  of  a  spirit  of  unity  across  the  heart- 
strings of  one  he  loves? 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
AT  UNCLE  DICK'S 

ON  the  day  before  Thanksgiving,  Mrs. 
Warren  had  her  first  long  letter  from 
Mabel.      In  this  letter  she  had  more 
than  the  usual  interest,  and  could  scarcely 
wait  for  an  opportunity  to  read  it  aloud  to  the 
Doctor.     It  read: 

"DEAREST  MARGARET: 

"Forgive  me  for  not  writing  you  a  real  letter  be- 
fore, but  things  have  moved  so  rapidly  I  could  not 
seem  to  get  to  it.  Besides,  I  scarcely  knew  how  to 
begin,  and  I  confess  that  I  do  not,  now.  However, 
I  suppose  it  may  as  well  be  at  the  beginning  and 
then  you  will  understand. 

"I  arrived  on  the  2yth.  Uncle  Dick,  aunt  Mary, 
and  Cousin  Fred  met  me,  and  brought  me  to  their 
home  which  is  indeed  a  most  beautiful  one.  I  had 
to  rest  for  a  few  days,  of  course,  and  Fred  cer- 
tainly kept  me  from  being  homesick.  He  is  only 
sixteen,  but  almost  as  tall  as  the  Doctor,  with  long, 
thin  arms  and  legs,  and  naturally  awkward  as  you 
would  expect  any  boy  of  that  age  and  size  to  be, 
but  the  best  boy  and  the  funniest  one  you  ever  saw. 
He  has  a  fine  face  and  a  good  head,  so  just  wait 
until  he  gets  a  few  more  years  over  him,  and  the 
corresponding  pounds  to  go  with  them,  and  he  will 

109 


no  THE  PROBLEM 

be  a  'star'  all  right. 

"Well,  so  much  for  that.  When  I  had  been 
here  a  week,  uncle  wanted  me  to  go  to  Los  An- 
geles with  him,  as  he  had  business  to  attend  to. 
Over  and  over  again  I  had  heard  them  speak  of  a 
'Willard  Irving'  over  there,  and  I  naturally  in- 
quired who  he  was.  They  told  me  that  he  was  a 
promising  'young  old  bach'  with  whom  Uncle  Dick 
was  greatly  pleased,  and  with  whom  he  had  many 
business  relations.  I  further  learned  that  he  was 
connected  with  some  corporation  in  Los  Angeles 
in  which  Uncle  Dick  was  an  owner  and  also  a  direc- 
tor. 

"Well,  we  went.  Uncle  had  taken  me  to 
two  or  three  pla.ces,  when  he  looked  at  his  watch 
and  found  that  it  was  1 1 130.  He  left  me  at  a 
hotel,  while  he  went  to  see  Willard  and,  if  possible, 
get  him  to  come  to  lunch  with  us.  Uncle  started 
and,  knowing  that  I  was  to  meet  a  stranger  and  a 
friend  of  my  uncle's,  I  dug  into  my  bag  for  my 
comb,  and  in  the  next  few  minutes  made  myself  as 
presentable  as  a  good  wash  and  combing  could 
make  me.  When  that  was  done,  I  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out.  I  heard  footsteps  and 
then  voices — uncle's  and  another.  I  listened  but 
had  no  time  for  thought  before  the  door  opened, 
and  Margaret,  don't  think  I  am  lying  or  crazy  or 
dreaming,  but  uncle's  friend,  'Willard  Irving'  is 
Clifford— Clifford  Illsley. 

"I  can't  tell  it  all,  Margaret,  but  you  can 
imagine  what  the  next  moments  were. 


AT  UNCLE  DICK'S  in 

"Uncle  Dick  stood  back  and  stared.  I  never 
saw  a  man  so  surprised  in  his  life.  We  had  to  go 
back  and  tell  him  all  before  he  could  grasp  it,  and 
when  he  did,  he  said:  'The  name,  Willard? 
'What's  that?' 

'  'Willard'  is  my  middle  name,  and  'Irving'  my 
mother's  maiden  name.  I  used  my  own  until  one 
year  in  Chicago,  the  year  I  came  to  Los  Angeles, 
when  another  fellow  had  a  name  just  like  it,  and 
he  got  into  trouble.  His  name  was  in  all  the  pa- 
pers till  I  was  sick  of  the  sight  of  it;  I  was  afraid 
some  people  might  think  it  was  I.  When  I  came 
here,  I  wanted  to  make  a  go  of  it,  and  I  did  not 
want  to  be  handicapped  by  a  name,  so  I  took  the 
Willard  Irving  one.  I  have  wanted  a  lot  of  times 
to  tell  you,  but  it  did  not  seem  necessary;  besides, 
when  you  talked  of  your  niece,  and  her  possible 
coming,  I  did  not  dare  for  fear  you  might  tell  her, 
and  then  I  knew  she  would  never  come.  We — we 
had  a  foolish  little  quarrel,  you  know,  explained 
Clifford. 

"  'Quarrel,  eh?'  said  uncle,  looking  straight  at 
me  until  my  face  got  so  red  I  thought  I  should  sink 
through  the  floor,  and  yet  I  did  not  want  to;  for, 
Margaret,  it  did  seem  good  to  see  Clifford,  and  to 
know  that  he  has  made  good  and  has  the  respect  of 
everyone  around  here.  I  am  sorry  about  the  name, 
of  course,  and  yet  if  it  were  not  for  his  having  hid- 
den behind  it,  we  probably  would  never  have  met; 
for  I  certainly  would  never  have  come  had  I  known 
he  was  here. 


H2  THE  PROBLEM 

"I  guess,  Margaret,  I  was  as  much  to  blame  as 
he,  and  I  am  so  glad  it  is  over.  Anyhow,  you  may 
as  well  know  the  'worst'  or  the  'best,'  whichever 
you  care  to  call  it;  for  we  have  agreed  'not  to  dis- 
agree,' but  to  'agree;'  to  forget  our  childish  fool- 
ishness, and  he  insists  on  our  making  Christmas 
our  wedding  day.  Of  course,  you  will  know  at 
once  just  what  uncle  says,  where  he  thinks  so  much 
of  Clifford,  and  where  he  wants  me  out  here,  any- 
way. 

"I  tell  them  we  must  wait  until  Easter.  How- 
ever, I  have  just  written  the  trustees  of  the  'Home,' 
asking  them  to  withdraw  my  name  from  their  list. 

"My!  How  little  I  dreamed  of  anything  like 
this  when  I  came ! 

"You  don't  blame  me,  do  you  Margaret?  You 
know  that  you  and  Hunt  always  liked  Clifford,  and 
truly,  Margaret,  he  has  improved  a  lot.  I  told 
him  so,  and  he  stuck  to  it  that  if  he  had,  it  was 
his  thinking  of  me  and  his  being  with  my  uncle 
where  he  so  often  heard  of  me  that  kept  up  his 
courage  to  fight  it  out. 

"It  was  so  strange  that  he  knew  almost  at  the 
first  about  their  eastern  relations,  but  all  the  time 
they  never  suspected  that  he  was  from  a  section 
farther  east  than  Chicago. 

"If  I  do  stay  here,  Margaret,  you  and  Hunt 
and  Willa  will  surely  have  to  visit  me. 

"I  haven't  been  able  to  decide  anything  definite 
yet,  except  that  we  are  to  be  married,  and  I  am  to 
have  my  engagement  ring  on  Thanksgiving  Day. 


AT  UNCLE  DICK'S  113 

I  wonder  if  the  turkey  will  taste  any  better  because 
of  it? 

"There,  dear,  I  must  stop.  Give  my  love  to  the 
Doctor  and  Willa,  and  know  that  you  have  your 
own  big  share,  from 

"MABEL. 

"P.  S.  O,  if  mother  could  only  know !  But  per- 
haps she  does." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  ANGEL'S  MISTAKE 

DR.  WARREN'S  house  was  less  than 
an  eighth  of  a  mile  from  the  school- 
house,  and  seldom  a  recess  came  when 
Willa   did  not  run  home  to  see  her 
mother,  either  to  tell  her  something  that  had  hap- 
pened, or  to  get  an  apple,  cookie,  or  piece  of  gin- 
ger-bread.    From  the  time  she  first  entered  the 
doors  of  learning,  nothing  grieved  her  more  than 
to  miss  any  lesson.     Certainly,  it  was  unusual  for 
her  to  be  begging  to  stay  at  home  as  she  was  doing 
one  morning  in  early  June,  the  summer  that  she 
herself  would  be  six;   in  fact,  the  very  month. 

"Mama,  I  don't  want  to  go  to  school.  I  want 
to  see  the  baby,  and  I  want  papa  to  bring  him  home 
where  he  belongs,"  wailed  Willa. 

"But,  dear,  you  cannot  see  the  baby  this  morning, 
and  you  know  that  Si  and  Hannah  didn't  have  any 
little  boy  or  girl  at  all  to  keep  them  company,"  her 
mother  reasoned. 

"But  I  know  it's  our  baby,  mama,"  she  said  be- 
tween her  sobs.  "I've  prayed  and  prayed  every 
night  since  I  was  at  grandma's  that  summer  and 
saw  Jennie,  and  now  God  sent  me  one,  and  the  an- 
gels,— "  here  she  sobbed  aloud  as  though  her  heart 
would  break — "the  angels" — another  sob  broke 
forth,  "came  at  night,"  she  continued,  "and,  'twas 

114 


THE  ANGEL'S  MISTAKE          1 1 5 

dark,  an', — boohoo,  got — the — wrong  house.  They 
meant  it — for  me — but  they  couldn't  see,"  she 
added  jerkily,  between  her  sobs. 

Mrs.  Warren  sat  with  the  child  in  her  lap  for 
fully  half  an  hour.  Her  reasoning  powers  were 
sorely  taxed  in  trying  to  reconcile  Willa  to  the  pres- 
ent situation,  and  still  have  her  hold  her  faith  in 
prayer.  At  last,  the  Doctor  arrived,  and  Willa  pre- 
sented her  case  to  him,  blaming  the  darkness  for 
the  great  mistake  made,  and  saying  she  wished  it 
was  never  night  and  never  dark. 

"Now,  just  think,  Willa,"  he  said  kindly.  "You 
and  the  other  children,  and  we  big  people,  too,  have 
the  sunshine  all  day  long,  don't  we?" 

"Y-e-s,"  she  answered. 

"And  while  we  are  having  it,  the  little  boys  and 
girls  on  the  other  side  of  the  world  are  sound 
asleep.  It  is  all  dark  there,  then,  for  they  are  hav- 
ing their  night;  but  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  leave 
them  in  the  dark  all  the  time,  would  it?"  he  asked. 

"N-o." 

"You  see  the  sun  comes  to  visit  us,  and  we  have 
day;  and  then,  it  is  only  fair  for  it  to  go  to  visit 
them,  and  give  them  some  day,  isn't  it?  You 
wouldn't  want  to  keep  it  all  the  time,  and  never  let 
the  other  little  boys  and  girls  have  any,  would 
you?" 

"N-o,  but — but — but  the  baby,"  she  said,  brok- 
enly, her  lips  trembling. 

"Don't  you  see,  Willa,  if  the  angels  had  left 
it  here,  we  would  have  had  two,  you  and  the  new 


n6  THE  PROBLEM 

one,  and  Si  and  Hannah  still  would  have  had  none 
at  their  house.  You  love  Si  and  Hannah,  and  you 
wouldn't  want  to  treat  them  that  way,  would  you  ?" 
he  asked. 

"No, — only, — don't  you  see,  papa,  I  asked  God 
— to  send  me  one,  and — " 

"And  He  did  send  one  to  be  your  nearest  neigh- 
bor. Just  think  how  often  you  can  see  him,  and 
before  long  he  will  be  able  to  play  with  you." 

"How  long,  papa?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"In  two  or  three  years  he  will  be  running 
around,  but  long  before  that  he  will  be  able  to  play 
with  you,  and  to  know  what  you  say  to  him,"  an- 
swered the  Doctor. 

"What  you  s'pose  they'll  call  him,  papa?"  Willa 
asked  in  a  tone  which  told  her  father  at  once  that 
the  grievance  was  fast  disappearing. 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  he  answered. 

"Well,  I  think  they  ought  to  name  him  Mabel" 
said  Willa,  emphatically. 

Both  the  Doctor  and  his  wife  laughed,  which 
made  Willa  add,  still  more  seriously: 

"Well,  I  do,  papa,  for  Auntie  Mabel,  you  know, 
'cause  I  think  she  liked  babies  awful  well." 

"But  'Mabel'  is  a  girl's  name,  and  people  nev- 
er give  to  little  boys  the  same  names  they  do  to 
girls.  Didn't  you  know  that?" 

"I  don't  see  why.  A  name's  a  name,  isn't  it?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,  a  name  is  a  name,  but  you  wouldn't  want 
us  to  call  you  'Tommy'  would  you?"  he  answered. 


THE  ANGEL'S  MISTAKE          117 

"Of  course  not,"  she  laughed.  "I  didn't  think 
o'  that,"  and  her  tone  alone  conveyed  the  idea  that 
she  was  satisfied  her  argument  had  failed. 

The  next  moment  they  heard  the  sound  of  boys 
and  girls  at  play.  They  knew  it  was  recess;  and, 
taking  advantage  of  her  changed  mood,  they  per- 
suaded her  to  join  the  others  for  the  remainder  of 
the  forenoon,  and  assured  her  that  she  should  see 
the  baby  before  night. 

It  is  needless  to  say,  for  that  day  at  least,  Wil- 
la's  mind  was  on  the  baby  more  frequently  than 
on  her  lessons.  She  even  took  out  her  tiny  slate, 
bought  for  her  in  Ripley,  the  frame  of  which  was 
padded  with  red  felt  and  fastened  with  black  cord, 
giving  it  a  most  distinguished  appearance  in  the  lit- 
tle school-house  of  Woodrow.  This  had  been  a 
source  of  delight  to  Willa,  as  long  ago  she  had 
manifested  an  unusual  talent  for  drawing.  On  this 
particular  afternoon  she  drew  on  it  what  to  her 
seemed  a  very  fine  picture  of  a  baby,  and  beneath 
it  she  printed. 

"JOSUF  CAMBEL," 

in  not  very  regular  letters;  nevertheless,  she  was 
proud  of  her  accomplishment  and  had  to  carry  it 
home  for  her  father  and  mother  to  see.  They  al- 
ways followed  the  rule  of,  "Praise  where  you  can; 
censure  where  you  must,"  and  now  they  followed 
the  first  part  of  the  precept,  for  her  efforts  were 
certainly  worthy  of  praise,  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  they  provoked  laughter. 

"So  you've  named  the  baby,  have  you?"  asked 


n  8  THE  PROBLEM 

the  Doctor. 

"Yes,"  answered  Willa,  "if  he's  got  to  have  a 
boy's  name,  I  thought  'Josuf'  was  the  little  boy  in 
the  Bible  that  his  father  loved  so  well  he  made  him 
that  nice,  pretty  coat.  Don't  you  remember?" 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"He  made  it  'cause  he  loved  him  so  much,  an' 
I  knew  that  Si  and  Hannah'd  love  this  baby,  and 
it  sounded  good  when  I  said  'Josuf  Cambel,'  don't 
you  think  so?"  she  asked. 

"Sounds  fine.  You  didn't  get  it  spelled  just 
right,  but  it  sounds  about  the  same,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor. "You  find  your  little  story  book  and  see  how 
it  is  there." 

Away  Willa  ran,  soon  coming  back  with  her 
book  opened  to  the  right  place,  saying  aloud : 

"J-o-s-e-p-h,  O,  yes.  I  forgot.  Let  me  change 
it" " 

"Don't  rub  that  out,"  cautioned  the  Doctor. 
"We  will  take  it  down  to  show  Hannah  and  Si. 
You  can  print  it  the  right  way  underneath. 
Wouldn't  that  be  better?" 

Willa  agreed  that  it  would,  and  at  once  got  her 
pencil  to  work,  carefully  making  the  letters.  Her 
father  cautioned  her  not  to  be  too  anxious  over  it, 
as  possibly  Si  and  Hannah  had  already  decided  on 
a  name. 

The  result  was,  however,  that  Willa  had  her 
wish,  with  the  addition  of  a  middle  name ;  and  Jo- 
seph Warren  Campbell  in  due  time  made  the  ac- 
quaintanceship of  the  people  of  Woodrow. 


M 


CHAPTER  XX 

ECHOES  FROM  CANTON 

ABEL  FAIRBANKS  IRVING  sat 
in  her  room  up-stairs  holding  a  letter 
she  had  just  received  from  her  sister, 
Emily,  who  was  still  in  Canton. 


"DEAREST  MABEL: — 

"It  is  no  use.  You  may  as  well  make  up  your 
mind  to  it  first  as  last.  You  know  there  is  no  rea- 
son in  the  world  why  you  cannot  come.  If  Clif- 
ford got  along  without  you  all  those  other  years,  he 
surely  can  get  along  now  for  six  weeks  while  you 
come  to  be  with  me  over  my  wedding. 

"I  admit  that  I  was  not  with  you,  but  that  does 
not  excuse  you  in  the  least,  for  you  went  out  there 
just  on  a  visit;  and  then  did  the  thing  up  so  quick- 
ly that  I  had  no  chance  to  go,  besides,  it  came  right 
in  the  middle  of  the  school  year. 

"We  are  to  be  married  in  the  early  part  of  Sep- 
tember, but  are  not  sure  of  the  day  yet.  I'll  have 
my  summer  vacation  to  get  ready  in. 

"Henry's  father  wants  us  to  be  married  at  the 
old  home,  and  Mrs.  Holway  says  she  thinks  we 
ought  to  go  to  her  house.  She  thinks  mother  would 
like  it  so,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  I  shall  decide  in 
her  favor.  That  would  be  nearer  'home'  than  any 
place. 


120  THE  PROBLEM 

"As  you  know,  Henry  and  I  have  been  saving 
for  the  last  three  years,  but  we  shall  need  all  those 
dollars  to  start  our  home  with,  so  going  to  Cali- 
fornia just  for  the  sake  of  being  married  at  your 
house  is  out  of  the  question.  You  can  afford  the; 
trip  as  well  as  not,  and  ought  to  take  it  both  for 
your  own  sake  and  for  ours. 

"You  understand,  we  are  not  to  have  any  real 
'wedding'  at  all.  We  are  just  going  to  be  married 
in  our  own  quiet  way,  and  save  all  expense  that  a 
big  'show'  would  cost.  I  never  did  believe  in  them, 
and  Henry  is  as  much  averse  to  them  as  I. 

"We  have  the  dearest,  dearest  house  rented. 
Henry  says  we  may  buy  it  later  if  the  owner  will 
sell.  It  is  out  about  a  mile,  a  one  family  house, 
with  stable,  garden,  and  the  most  beautiful  shrub- 
bery on  the  lawn.  It  is  to  be  newly  painted,  pa- 
pered, and  whitened,  so  it  will  surely  shine  when 
it  gets  our  new  things  in  it.  We  only  got  it  a  week 
ago.  Henry  has  been  trying  for  a  month  to  make 
the  deal.  For  years  it  was  occupied  by  two  doubled 
and  twisted  old  maids,  and  this  last  year  they  both 
died.  A  nephew  who  now  owns  it  was  thinking  of 
remodeling  it  into  a  two  family  house  to  rent,  be- 
lieving it  would  bring  him  in  more  money,  but  Hen- 
ry finally  won  him  over.  I  am  so  pleased  about  it. 

"Won't  we  have  fun  settling,  though?  School 
is  only  one  week  more,  and  then  I  shall  be  free, 
free,  free.  Hooray  for  Em!  I  certainly  must 
keep  the  check  rein  tight  or  I  shall  run  away  with 
myself  I  am  so  happy.  I  wonder  if  everyone  feels 


ECHOES  FROM  CANTON         121 

so?     They  must  if  they  marry  for  love,  mustn't 
they? 

"Will  say  'good-night,'  sister  mine.  You  must 
come,  or  I  shall  never  forgive  you. 

"Heaps  of  love, 

"EM." 

Mabel  read  her  sister's  letter  more  than  once, 
alternating  the  reading  with  the  sewing  which  rest- 
ed on  the  top  of  her  basket  by  the  window. 

"I'll  see  what  Clifford  thinks,"  she  at  last  said, 
as  she  broke  off  a  fresh  needle  full  of  thread.  "Let's 
see.  It  is  3  130  now.  He'll  be  here  in  another 
hour." 

Mabel  had  a  dainty,  attractive  home,  and  every- 
thing in  it  harmonized  with  the  thought  of  comfort, 
health,  and  happiness.  Indeed,  those  three  valu- 
able assets  had  been  added  in  abundance  to  Mabel's 
life  since  her  coming  to  visit  Uncle  Dick  and  her 
marriage  to  Clifford.  The  fact  that  she  was  sep- 
arated from  her  sisters  and  Margaret  was  her  only 
grievance. 

The  letter  just  read,  and  the  thoughts  of  her 
sister's  approaching  marriage  caused  her  again  to 
go  to  old  scenes  and  old  friends,  and  more  than  all 
to  that  time  when  days,  and  nights  if  necessary, 
she  was  her  mother's  faithful  watcher.  In  some 
ways  it  seemed  a  hundred  years  ago,  so  different 
were  her  surroundings  and  life  now;  and  yet  in 
other  ways  it  seemed  only  yesterday,  so  clearly  did 
it  all  come  before  her.  Anxiously,  she  watched  for 


122  THE  PROBLEM 

Clifford.  Mabel  still  clung  to  the  old  name,  al- 
though he  was  still  "Willard  Irving"  to  the  pub- 
lic. He  had,  however,  gotten  into  the  way  of 
signing  "C.  Willard  Irving,"  and  the  "C.  Willard" 
was  correct. 

When  he  did  come,  Mabel  passed  him  Emily's 
letter. 

"Read  it,  Clifford,"  she  said. 

"Well?"  he  said,  when  he  had  done  so  and  laid 
the  letter  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"That  is  what  I  am  saying,"  she  laughed  back. 

To  Mabel  it  seemed  that  Clifford  waited  fully 
five  minutes  before  answering,  but  the  clock  did  not 
measure  more  than  half  that  time. 

"You  don't  know  how  I  hate  to  have  you  go, 
Mabe,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  selfish  about  it,"  he 
said.  "You  owe  a  duty  to  your  sisters,  and  I  owe 
one  to  you;  besides,  dear,"  he  added,  as  he  rose 
and  went  to  her,  "we  know  how  next  year  it  will 
be  impossible  for  you  to  go,  so — maybe — " 

"I  hate  to  go,  Clifford,  just  as  much  as  you  hate 
to  have  me,  and  yet,  I  want  to  go.  You  can  under- 
stand, can't  you?" 

"I  understand,  Mabe." 

"As  you  say,  I  shall  be  needed  right  here  next 
year.  See  what  I  have  been  making?  Isn't  it  a 
dear?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  can't  wait  for  the  time 
to  come,"  she  said,  almost  reverently. 

"Nor  I,"  he  answered,  smoothing  her  hair  gent- 
ly with  his  hands. 

"I  have  not  written  the  girls  yet,  and  if  I  decide 


ECHOES  FROM  CANTON         123 

to  go,  I  shall  not  tell  them  until  I  get  there.  They 
will  be  almost  as  glad  as  I.  You  ought  to  have 
seen  them  the  summer  Margaret  had  Willa  down 
home  for  the  first  time.  They  were  just  in  love 
with  her." 

"How  long  ago  was  that?"  he  asked. 

"Almost  three  years — the  summer  mother  died, 
you  know.  She  was  four  then,  and  the  dearest 
child  I  ever  saw." 

"She  ought  to  be  a  dear.  Her  mother  was  a 
treasure." 

"That's  what  Margaret  is,  all  right,"  answered 
Mabel. 

Clifford  started,  but  caught  himself  in  time  to 
keep  from  putting  strange  thoughts  into  Mabel's 
mind.  Soon  after  her  arrival  he  had  questioned 
her  carefully  about  the  Doctor  and  Margaret,  and 
inquired  if  they  now  had  any  children.  On  being 
told  of  Willa,  he  saw  at  once  that  Mabel  was  not 
aware  of  the  child's  parentage;  and,  knowing  on 
what  intimate  terms  the  two  women  were,  he  was 
convinced  that  Mrs.  Warren  preferred  to  keep  the 
secret,  and  he  resolved  then  and  there  never  to  be 
the  one  to  betray  his  knowledge  of  it. 

Again  he  and  Mabel  discussed  the  trip,  the  time 
she  better  start;  and,  incidentally,  the  cost.  Finally, 
the  following  letter  went  back  to  Canton : 

"DEAR  LITTLE  EM: 

"Neither  Clifford  nor  I  can  say  'no'  to  you  at  a 
time  like  this. 


i24  THE  PROBLEM 

"I  can  only  hope  that  your  married  life  may  be 
as  happy  as  mine  has  been  so  far;  and  the  best  of 
it  is,  I  grow  happier  every  day.  If  we  both  had 
not  been  two  stubborn  children,  we  need  never  have 
had  that  break,  but  we  have  certainly  made  up  for 
it  since. 

"I  rather  like  the  idea  of  the  ceremony  taking 
place  at  Mrs.  Holway's.  It  was  kind  in  her  to 
suggest  it  anyway. 

"I  can't  tell  yet  just  when  I  shall  start.  I  only 
know  that  Clifford  and  I  are  agreed  that  the  trip 
shall  be  taken.  I  have  not  had  a  chance  yet  to 
tell  Uncle  Dick.  Of  course,  he  knows  that  you  are 
to  be  married  soon.  I  do  wish  he  could  go  with 
me,  but  that  is  out  of  the  question. 

"I  mean  to  bring  Hallie  back  with  me  if  such 
a  thing  is  possible,  and  I  have  reason  to  believe  it 
will  be  when  I  once  see  her. 

"I  do  wish  you  could  see  our  lawn  now.  If  you 
only  could  you  surely  would  want  to  be  married 
right  in  the  midst  of  our  roses.  We  have  over 
thirty  different  kinds.  They  are  simply  beautiful. 

"Clifford  is  calling  to  me  so  I  must  stop.  Good- 
night, my  dear.  Tell  Hallie  I  am  waiting  for  her 
letter. 

"Lots  of  love  from 

"MABEL." 


CHAPTER  XXI 
HER  CUP  RUNNETH  OVER 


1 


morning  of  June  lyth  dawned 
bright  and  clear.  Willa  was  as  busy  as  a 
bee  gathering  flowers  for  nearly  every 
room.  It  was  her  seventh  birthday,  and 
to  her  a  birthday  seemed  almost  as  good  as  Christ- 
mas. This  year,  however,  something  happened  to 
make  her  feel  the  day  was  better  than  any  day  she 
had  ever  known ;  and,  more  than  that,  that  she  had 
the  best  grandpa  and  grandma  a  little  girl  ever  had. 

After  Willa  had  arranged  the  flowers  to  the  best 
of  her  ability,  her  father  and  mother  took  her  for 
a  drive,  during  which  time,  as  though  accidentally, 
the  Doctor  reined  Nell  up  toward  the  station,  and 
past  the  freight-house. 

"O — O !  Look !  Papa,  mama,  look !"  screamed 
Willa. 

Her  appeal  to  "look"  was  not  needed  by  them, 
for  this  was  what  they  had  been  doing  ever  since 
they  came  in  sight  of  the  place. 

"O!  O!  O!  Let  me  out  papa,  let  me  out!" 
cried  the  child  in  ecstacy. 

The  cause  of  all  this  clamor  on  her  part  was 
the  sight  of  Si  harnessing  into  a  little  dog-cart  a 
cream  colored  pony  with  heavy  mane  and  tail. 

"O !  O  I"  from  time  to  time  seemed  all  the  child 
125 


126  THE  PROBLEM 

could  say.  She  scrambled  out  before  her  father 
could  get  the  wheels  cramped,  and  ran  straight  to 
the  pony. 

"Look  out  for  her,  Si.  See  he  doesn't  nip  her," 
cautioned  the  Doctor,  but  Trix,  the  new  arrival, 
only  put  his  head  down  for  Willa  to  pat  him. 

"Weren't  they  good  to  send  him?"  said  Mar- 
garet, "but  that  is  just  like  father,  anyway." 

Mr.  Holway  had  written  a  few  days  before 
about  this  "rig-out"  being  for  sale,  telling  them 
that  he  was  going  to  send  it  to  Willa  for  a  birth- 
day present;  and  the  day  before  a  wire  had  reached 
the  Doctor,  carrying  the  one  word,  "Shipped." 
Consequently,  they  were  prepared. 

"Look  at  her.  Do  you  suppose  there  is  a  hap- 
pier child  living  than  she  is  this  minute?"  asked  the 
Doctor,  as  Si  and  Willa  climbed  into  the  cart. 

Another  spectator  of  the  scene  had  been  little 
red  headed,  freckled  faced  Jimmy  Tucker,  who, 
when  convinced  that  this  wonder  of  wonders  really 
belonged  to  Willa,  ran  home  as  fast  as  his  short, 
fat  legs  could  carry  him.  When  near  the  house, 
he  roused  them  all  by  shouting,  "Mama,  grandma, 
— Alice,  mama,  grandma,"  all  the  way  through  the 
yard  and  up  the  steps.  Within  the  doors  he  ran 
from  one  to  the  other,  again  calling  all  the  names 
he  could  think  of,  accompanied  by  a  "Come,  come, 
Willa,  pony,  lookout,  come — quick." 

His  message  delivered,  he  again  ran  out  to  fol- 
low the  pony,  the  cart,  their  owner,  and  Si;  for 
these  had  led  the  way,  and  the  Doctor  and  his  wife 


HER  CUP  RUNNETH  OVER       127 

kept  behind.  Like  Jimmie,  they  found  the  sight 
interesting.  When  in  their  own  yard,  Willa  in- 
sisted on  her  mother's  joining  her  and  driving  down 
to  see  Hannah,  who  was  already  on  her  piazza, 
holding  little  Joseph  in  her  arms,  watching  Willa 
jouncing  up  and  down,  laughing,  talking,  and 
swinging  the  reins  at  the  same  time.  Some  of  her 
happiness  must  necessarily  be  worked  off,  for  she 
could  not  hold  it  all.  Willa's  longing  had  at  last 
been  realized.  Never  had  she  forgotten  the  ponies 
she  had  seen  at  a  circus  two  years  before ;  and  nev- 
er had  she  gotten  over  wishing  for  one. 

To  Willa's  delight,  Hannah  was  full  of  appreci- 
ation, although  no  more  so  than  Baby  Joe,  now  a 
year  old,  who  had  to  reach  out  his  chubby  hand  to 
pat  the  pony,  with  a  "Ugh,  ugh,"  until  Willa  had 
to  jump  out  in  order  to  be  nearer  the  scene  of  ac- 
tion, and  to  talk  to  Baby  Joe  himself.  While  she  was 
doing  this,  her  mother  discovered  that  Jimmie 
Tucker  was  swinging  himself  on  the  back  of  the 
cart. 

"Why,  Jimmie!  Where  did  you  come  from?" 
she  called. 

"I  seen  him  first,"  was  Jimmie's  blunt  reply,  as 
he  dug  his  bare  toes  into  the  ground  under  him. 

"Seen  who?"  she  asked. 

"The  pony.  I  seen  him  'fore  Si  got  him  off  the 
train,"  proudly  answered  Jimmie,  feeling  himself 
quite  a  hero. 

"O,  Jimmie,  come  here,"  called  Willa.  "Isn't 
he  pretty?"  she  asked. 


128  THE  PROBLEM 

Jimmie  did  not  need  a  second  invitation;  he  was 
soon  beside  Willa,  and  said,  longingly,  as  he  looked 
at  Trix,  "I — wish — he's — mine.  When — I — get 
big,  I'll  hev  one." 

"Never  mind,  Jimmie.  We'll  give  you  a  ride 
home,  won't  we,  mama?"  Willa  said,  soothingly. 

"Of  course.  Come,  get  in,  both  of  you,"  her 
mother  answered,  cheerily. 

Jimmie's  face  at  that  moment  was  all  the  pay 
Mrs.  Warren  needed.  She  never  forgot  the  ex- 
pression it  wore,  which,  as  she  told  the  Doctor  af- 
terward, reminded  her  of  a  freshly  opened  sun- 
flower; and  Jimmie  never  forgot  the  ride. 

Before  Willa  went  to  bed  that  night  she  had  to 
write  a  letter  of  thanks  to  grandpa  and  grandma. 
Faithfully  she  labored  over  this  all  important 
letter.  At  last  she  carried  the  following  to  her 
mother  for  approval : 

Dear  Grandpa  and  Grandma :  I  think  you  are 
the  very  nisest  foxes  a  little  girl  ever  hed  I  wish  I 
could  see  you.  Trix  is  a  darlin  he  took  mama  an 
me  to  ride  and  then  he  took  papa  but  i  went  to. 
I  have  to  go  coz  hes  mind.  I  thanks  you  milluns 

an  milluns  lots  of  love  an  hear  are  your  kises. 
******** 

WILLA. 
Com  up  an  see  me. 

The  letter  was  sent  just  as  written  and  was  treas- 
ured by  grandpa  and  grandma,  who  felt  that  they 
loved  the  child  as  though  she  were  their  own. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
FOR  ALL  TIME 

YOU  take  Emily  May  to  be  your  law- 
ful wedded  wife,  and  do  here  promise 
to  love,  honor,  and  cherish  her  in  sick- 
ness and  health — " 

"I  do,"  came  the  answer  in  the  strong,  clear 
tones  of  Henry  V.  Livermore,  M.  D. ;  and  the 
same  response  came  from  Emily  May,  when  a  sim- 
ilar question  had  been  asked  of  her. 

Their  plans  for  the  wedding  had  been  changed 
entirely,  after  Mabel's  arrival.  Instead  of  either 
Mrs.  Holway's  or  Mr.  Livermore's  invitations 
being  accepted,  it  was  decided  that  the  marriage 
should  take  place  at  their  own  home,  which  had 
been  a  scene  of  excitement  for  the  last  few  weeks. 
Only  relatives  and  the  Holways  were  present; 
but  later,  on  the  lawn,  a  reception  was  held,  and  it 
seemed  that  all  Canton  marched  in  through  one 
gate,  past  the  receiving  line,  the  table  of  refresh- 
ments, and  out  of  the  other.  Surely  no  present 
pupil,  and  na  young  man  or  woman  who  had  been 
numbered  among  the  High  School  pupils  during 
the  past  four  years,  failed  to  be  present  if  such  a 
thing  was  possible. 

The  bride  looked  as  most  brides  look,  only 
more  beautiful,  because  at  that  time  she  was  the 
last  in  Canton.  All  loved  her,  and  love  alone  will 

129 


i3o  THE  PROBLEM 

make  even  a  plain  face  beautiful,  but  Emily's  had 
too  regular  features  and  too  clear  a  complexion  to 
be  considered  plain.  She  had  always  been  called 
pretty,  but  to-night  she  looked  beautiful,  in  the 
high,  the  true  sense.  From  the  time  she  entered  the 
room  to  the  notes  of  Lohengrin,  all  eyes  were  on 
her,  and  none  gazed  more  earnestly  than  Henry's 
father.  Over  and  over  again  he  said  to  himself, 
"Emily  Livermore,  Emily  Livermore,  Little  Em, 
Little  Sister,  Emily,  Emily."  The  name  was  the 
same,  and  that  surely  comforted  him.  His  Emily 
had  been  light;  this  one  was  dark,  but  she  was 
"Emily  Livermore"  for  all  that.  The  old  man 
was  happy,  or  as  nearly  so  as  he  was  ever  likely 
to  be  unless — no,  no.  He  dared  not  think  of  it. 
When  the  bulk  of  the  guests  had  gone,  Emily  went 
up  the  stairs  to  don  her  traveling  gown,  for  they 
were  to  spend  four  days  at  Niagara.  In  saying 
"good-by"  the  old  man  patted  her  on  the  shoulder 
with  the  words,  "Little  Emily,  our  Emily,"  and 
then  he  kissed  her. 

"You'll  stop  at  home  on  your  way  back?"  he 
asked,  eagerly. 

"We'll  stop,  father,"  said  Henry  and  Emily  to- 
gether. 

The  only  regret  expressed  by  those  present  was 
that  the  Warren  family  could  not  be  there,  but 
Mabel  and  Hallie,  who  were  to  remain  at  the 
house  while  the  bride  and  groom  were  gone,  were 
to  start  on  their  return  for  the  town  of  Woodrow. 
Mabel,  from  experience,  and  Hallie,  from  intui- 


FOR  ALL  TIME  131 

tion,  felt  that  the  newly-married  couple  should  get 
used  to  their  home  life  together  without  the  pres- 
ence of  even  sisters  who  loved  them  both. 

Hallie  was  fast  making  preparations  toward  ac- 
companying Mabel  to  California,  and  with  that  in- 
tention had  sent  in  her  resignation  as  teacher.  The 
trustees,  however,  voted  on  a  year's  leave  of  ab- 
sence, thus  giving  her  an  opportunity  to  return  if 
she  wished.  Sometimes  the  two  were  busy  work- 
ing on  Hallie's  clothes;  sometimes  putting  differ- 
ent rooms  in  order.  The  wedding  presents,  how- 
ever, were  in  a  room  by  themselves,  and  were  left 
for  Emily  and  Henry  to  arrange  and  acknowledge 
as  they  should  see  fit,  after  their  return.  Among 
these  presents,  nothing  had  pleased  Emily  more 
than  a  clock  that  had  come  in  the  Warren  box, 
bearing  Willa's  card  written  in  her  own  childish 
hand.  The  clock  itself  spoke  of  the  giver,  for  the 
long  pendulum  which  measured  the  seconds,  the 
minutes,  the  hours  consisted  of  a  suspended  swing 
in  which  sat  a  rosy  cheeked,  curly  haired  girl ;  and 
neither  Emily  or  the  Doctor  could  look  at  it  and 
not  think  of  their  little  friend,  Willa. 

Another  that  had  attracted  Emily's  attention 
was  a  large  oil  painting,  a  landscape  portraying  a 
scene  on  a  country  road  in  Henry's  home  town,  and 
a  card  with  the  name,  "Madaline  Lamson." 

"Who  is  that,  Henry?  No  one  I  know,"  said 
Emily,  passing  the  card  to  him.  He  was  not  sur- 
prised. He  had  seen  the  wrappings  taken  from  the 
painting,  and  knew  at  once  from  whom  it  came. 


i32  THE  PROBLEM 

"No,  you  do  not  know  her,"  he  answered,  "but 
I  will  tell  you  frankly  that  she  is  the  one  who,  as 
a  High  School  boy  and  a  College  boy  I  hoped  some- 
time to  ask  to  marry  me.  She  was  a  fine  girl  and 
all  right;  and  I  thought  the  feeling  I  had  for  her 
was  love,  until — until  I  saw  you,  Emily,  and — and 
you  know  the  rest,  don't  you?" 

"The  rest,  yes,  but— I— didn't— " 

"No,  dear.  We  were  never  engaged,  I  am 
thankful  to  say,  but  so  long  as  this  has  come,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  picture,  "I  wanted  you  to 
know  the  truth  about  it." 

"Thanks,  Henry.  I'd  like  to  know  her.  If  you 
liked  her,  I  am  sure  I  would  like  her,  too." 

"Perhaps  sometime  you  may,  but  I  think  it 
doubtful.  I  heard  a  few  weeks  ago  that  she  was 
engaged  to  a  man  in  the  West  and  was  to  be  mar- 
ried soon." 

"O!"  said  Emily.  "Well,  we  will  write  her  a 
note  of  thanks  to  show  her  that  we  appreciate  this, 
and  then  we  will  send  her  something  when  her 
time  comes,  won't  we?"  she  asked. 

"Just  as  you  say,  dear,"  answered  Henry. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
ONE  HEART  AND  ONE  MIND 

„  *m        If  Y  DEAR,  DEAR  CLIFFORD  : 

im  /I         "*   dunk  I  should  be  perfectly 
^L/         happy  if  you  were  only  here.     You 

JL    »    -1_  can't  know  how  much  I  miss  you. 

"We  are  at  Margaret's.  Hallie  and  I  came  on 
the  noon  train  yesterday.  Started  from  Canton 
almost  as  soon  as  Em  and  Henry  got  home.  They 
certainly  make  a  dandy  couple,  but  you  have  heard 
so  much  of  them,  the  wedding  and  the  house  that 
now  you  will  want  to  know  about  Margaret,  the 
Doctor,  and  Willa. 

"If  Henry  and  Em  can  only  have  as  happy  a 
married  life  as  Margaret  and  Hunt  have  had,  it 
will  be  blessed,  indeed,  and  there  is  no  reason  why 
they  can't  have  it  if  they  only  keep  level  heads  on 
them,  and  keep  their  hearts  right. 

"Margaret  and  Hunt  are  so  happy  together  that 
I  do  believe  they  grow  younger  each  year.  Willa 
seems  the  only  one  getting  older,  and  three  years 
in  a  child  certainly  make  a  big  difference.  She  is 
just  a  darling.  I  cannot  look  at  her  without  in 
thought  going  ahead  a  few  years,  and  thinking 
what  may  be  in  store  for  us.  You  cannot  know 
how  I  want  to  see  you,  Clifford. 

"I  shall  go  back  to  Em's  next  week,  and  the 
week  after  start  for  home.  Of  course,  I  would  not 

133 


134  THE  PROBLEM 

have  this  trip  taken  out  of  my  life  for  anything, 
but  there  is  no  place  like  'home'  Clifford,  no  mat- 
ter where  it  is  nor  how  humble  it  is. 

"Willa  is  out  now  giving  Hallie  a  ride  in  her 
pony-cart.  Willa  drives  the  pony  herself  and  she 
can  very  nearly  harness.  I  wish  you  could  see 
them.  Hallie  brought  her  camera  and  we  shall 
have  a  lot  of  pictures  to  show  you  when  we  get 
there.  She  took  one  last  night  of  Willa  on  her 
pony's  back;  and  in  front  of  her  sat  Si's  baby,  a 
little  over  a  year  old.  They  did  look  too  dear  for 
anything. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you  how  well  the  Doctor  and 
Margaret  have  gotten  along  financially.  There 
are  other  doctors  now,  but  Hunt  is  the  leading 
one  for  miles  around.  If  there  is  a  serious  case 
in  any  of  the  other  towns,  he  is  sent  for.  I  am  so 
glad  for  them  both. 

"Margaret  is  beginning  to  have  a  few  gray 
hairs,  but  they  don't  seem  to  make  her  look  a  day 
older.  I  suppose  it  is  because  the  old-fashioned 
fun  in  her  is  bubbling  up  underneath  just  the  same 
as  ever. 

"I  must  stop,  for  Margaret  is  calling  me.  We 
are  all  going  for  a  ride.  Hunt  bought  a  two  seat- 
ed carriage  this  summer,  and  he  wants  us  to  sam- 
ple it. 

"Good-by,  dear.  You  know  that  I  am  just  wait- 
ing to  be  with  you  again,  don't  you? 

"Give  my  love  to  Uncle  Dick,  auntie  and  Fred. 
I  hope  they  are  taking  good  care  of  you.  Tell 


ONE  HEART  AND  ONE  MIND     135 

them  if  they  don't  I  shall  never  forgive  them. 
"Good-by,  again,  and  heaps  of  love  from 

"MABE." 

After  sealing  and  stamping  the  letter,  Mabel 
put  it  in  her  bag  intending  to  post  while  they  should 
be  out. 

By  the  time  she  had  gotten  down  stairs,  Hallie 
and  Willa  had  Trix  in  his  stall,  and  were  already 
on  the  rear  seat  of  the  carriage,  in  anticipation  of 
the  longer  ride  with  the  others.  Nell  was  on  the 
right  of  the  pole,  and  "Pete,"  her  mate,  on  the 
left.  The  two  looked  almost  exactly  alike,  with 
the  exception  that  the  "dapples"  as  Willa  called 
them  on  Nell  shaded  a  dark  brown,  and  those  on 
Pete  a  light  one.  As  Si  hooked  the  tugs  and  hold- 
backs, and  slipped  the  reins  through  the  saddle 
rings,  Nell  and  Pete  first  caressed  and  then  nip- 
ped each  other  in  childlike  play. 

Margaret  insisted  that  Mabel  ride  on  the  front 
seat  with  the  Doctor,  in  order  to  get  a  better  view 
of  the  places  of  interest  which  she  had  learned  to 
know  on  her  other  visits;  and  she  herself  joined 
Willa  and  Hallie  on  the  back  seat. 

After  driving  to  the  post  office  and  mailing  her 
letter,  Mabel  noticed  to  her  delight  that  the  Doc- 
tor headed  the  horses  toward  the  Munson  Road, 
about  which  she  had  often  told  Hallie,  when  com- 
paring it  with  Canton  drives.  The  Doctor  had 
previously  planned  to  take  in  "the  square,"  going 
by  way  of  the  road  named  above,  past  the  Jewell 


136  THE  PROBLEM 

Lake,  and  out  over  the  Graham  Road.  It  was  a 
glorious  day,  and  over  two  hours  were  spent  in 
covering  the  ground  and  admiring  the  scenery.  The 
Doctor  had  driven  slowly  on  Mabel's  account,  lest 
she  grow  overtired,  but  on  her  return,  with  face 
burned  by  the  afternoon  sun,  she  forgot  all  fa- 
tigue in  finding  a  letter  from  Clifford,  remailed 
from  Canton.  She  hurried  to  her  room,  slipped  off 
her  shoes,  and  after  building  her  a  back  with  pil- 
lows and  cushions,  climbed  on  the  bed  to  read  the 
letter  from  the  one  she  loved  better  than  anyone 
else  in  all  the  wide  world.  It  read : 

"Sunday  evening. 
"Mv  DEAR  LITTLE  MABE: 

"I  am  well.  Don't  worry  about  me.  I  am  just 
a  little  blue,  that's  all.  I  have  been  over  to  the 
house  to-day.  The  folks  didn't  want  me  to  go, 
but  I  wanted  to  see  if  Jim  was  tending  the  lawn  as 
he  ought,  and  if  everything  inside  was  all  right. 
And,  Mabe,  I  never  knew  before  a  house  could 
look  so  bare,  so  forsaken,  without  a  woman  in  it. 
There  was  every  single  room  just  as  we  had  had 
it,  when  it  seemed  so  full  of  cheer,  and  to-day,  I 
felt  there  had  been  a  funeral  there.  I  saw  then, 
dear,  as  never  before,  that  it  is  not  the  building  nor 
the  things  in  it  that  makes  the  place  'home'  to  me, 
but  you,  Mabe,  and  I  know  now  that  wherever  you 
were,  in  a  hut  or  a  palace,  that  place  would  be 
'home'  to  me.  You  understand,  don't  you? 

"The  only  comfort  I  have  when  I  think  of  those 


ONE  HEART  AND  ONE  MIND     137 

years  apart,  is  that  you  could  or  would  not  have 
come  to  me  just  so  long  as  your  mother  needed 
you. 

"You  have  been  gone  six  weeks  now,  and  they 
seem  longer  than  any  six  years  in  the  past.  O,  what 
haven't  these  three  years  together  done  for  us! 
We  know  each  other  now,  and  we  only  thought  we 
knew  before.  What  a  difference  it  makes,  doesn't 
it,  dear? 

"Three  weeks  more  and  you  will  be  home.  Be 
careful  of  yourself  and  do  not  get  too  tired.  Good 
night,  my  dear,  and  God  bless  you !  I  never  used 
to  pray  much.  I  didn't  feel  like  it  until  I  lived  with 
you,  but  now  I  don't  believe  one  waking  hour 
passes  when  I  do  not  ask  God  to  care  for  you  and 
to  bring  you  back  safely  to  me. 

"Again,  good  night,  and  all  the  love  a  man 
could  possibly  know  for  a  woman,  from 

"CLIFFORD." 

Mabel  read  and  re-read  the  letter.  She  rear- 
ranged the  pillows  and  leaned  back,  still  holding 
the  pages  that  had  put  new  life  and  love  in  her 
veins,  and  there  Hallie  found  her  an  hour  later 
fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WELCOME  NEWS 


r  •  •*  HE  wind  seemed  to  creep  through  every 
crevice  of  the  old  house.  The  sound  of 
drifting  snow  could  be  heard  on  every 
•  window  pane  and  no  path,  no  track  could 
be  seen  outside.  The  cat,  rolled  up  on  the  rug  in 
front  of  the  open  fire,  seemed  the  only  unconcerned 
creature  around.  Rover,  the  dog,  went  from  the 
front  kitchen  door  to  the  back  wagging  his  tail.  He 
seemed  to  know  that  something  was  wrong;  that 
something  disturbed  his  mistress.  Emily  Liver- 
more  went  from  window  to  window  peering  out; 
for  she  had  the  shades  all  up  in  order  to  light  the 
roadway  for  those  outside.  It  was  the  first  bliz- 
zard of  the  season,  and  the  only  terrible  one  since 
she  had  come  to  Canton. 

"Do  you  think,  father,  there  is  danger  of  Hen- 
ry's getting  stuck  in  the  drifts?  Do  you,  really?" 
she  asked  anxiously,  stopping  by  the  chair  of  Hen- 
ry's father,  who  was  there  spending  a  few  weeks 
with  them,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"I  don't  know,  Em,"  answered  the  old  man, 
gently  placing  his  hand  over  hers,  and  shaking  his 
head.  "It  all  depends  on  his  horse." 

"O,  Ned  is  all  right,  but  the  road  is  all  filled  in. 
I  can't  see  even  a  track,"  she  answered,  "and  there 
is  a  drift  that  half  covers  my  bed-room  window. 

138 


WELCOME  NEWS  139 

Just  come  in  and  see  it." 

To  please  her,  the  old  man  followed;  and,  as 
he  looked,  he  said:  "It's  an  old  timer,  an  old 
timer." 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do !  Do  you  suppose  I 
ought  to  let  Rover  out  ?  Wouldn't  he  be  likely  to 
find  them  if  they  were  lost?  I  have  read  of  such 
things,"  said  Emily. 

"No,  no,  keep  him  in,  so  far  as  Henry  is  con- 
cerned. If  the  horse  is  any  good,  he'll  keep  to  the 
road  whether  Henry  can  see  to  rein  him  or  not.  A 
horse  is  a  wonderful  animal,  a  horse  is,  knows 
more'n  men  do  in  a  storm  like  this.  Henry  put  on 
his  cloth  overcoat  under  his  fur  one,  didn't  he?" 
asked  the  old  man,  anxiously. 

"Yes,  and  I  didn't  let  him  know  it,  but  I  wrap- 
ped up  two  hot  bricks  besides  the  soapstone,  and 
tucked  them  into  the  pung  before  he  drove  out  of 
the  shed,  and  his  robes  are  heavy.  If  I  could  only 
know !"  she  said,  "But  perhaps  he  is  still  over  to 
Mrs.  Miller's.  We  don't  know  how  sick  he  found 
her.  Rover  acts  awfully  nervous.  It  wouldn't  do 
any  harm  to  let  him  out,  would  it?  Dogs  know 
as  much  as  horses,  don't  they?" 

"Well,  let  him  out.  It  can't  do  any  harm.  We'll 
see  which  way  he  goes." 

As  Emily  started  for  the  door,  Rover  began 
stepping  around  and  wagging  his  tail,  ready  to 
bound  out  as  soon  as  the  door  should  open.  He 
was  a  beautiful  two-year-old  St.  Bernard  with 
which  Uncle  Dick  had  emphasized  a  hundred  dol- 


i4o  THE  PROBLEM 

lar  check  on  Emily's  wedding  day,  hence  his  name 
"Rover,"  a  symbol  of  his  travels.  So  tensely  had 
he  wedged  his  way  into  the  hearts  of  his  owners 
that  they  now  looked  on  him  as  a  part  of  their 
"stock  in  trade,"  and  he  was  perfectly  devoted  to 
them. 

When  out,  he  snuffed  around  the  door,  and  then 
started  off  in  the  direction  the  team  had  taken. 

"Rove's  gone,"  said  Emily.  "I  wonder  if  he 
will  find  Henry." 

"You  bet.  He'll  never  be  back  till  he  does,  un- 
less he  finds  someone  else  who  needs  help.  That's 
the  nature  of  him,"  answered  Mr.  Livermore. 

"It  is  quarter  past  nine,  now.  I  mean  to  see 
how  long  he  will  be  gone,"  said  Emily,  who  still 
kept  up  her  watching,  although  only  once  did  she 
hear  the  sound  of  bells,  and  they  came  from  a 
heavy  team  that  passed. 

First  Mr.  Livermore  and  then  Emily  added 
wood  to  the  open  fire;  besides  which  there  was  a 
big  fire  in  the  furnace.  Although  Emily  felt  that 
never  in  her  life  had  she  seen  a  storm  like  this,  she 
tried  to  console  herself  by  thinking  that  perhaps 
this  seemed  worse  because  one  she  loved  was,  or 
might  be,  in  the  midst  of  it.  She  had  a  hot  drink 
and  a  hot  supper  ready  in  case  Henry  should  come ; 
but  the  hands  of  the  clock  rolled  slowly  around, 
and  nobody  came,  neither  was  any  sound  heard 
save  the  hard  beating  of  snow  against  the  build- 
ings. 

"Father,  you  needn't  stay  up  if  you  are  tired/'1 


WELCOME  NEWS  141 

she  said,  at  last.  "I  won't  be  afraid  so  long  as  I 
know  you  are  in  the  house." 

"No,  no,  I'm  all  right,  Emily.  Perhaps  he'll 
be  here  pretty  soon." 

Emily- saw  that  the  speaker  was  growing  more 
anxious  than  he  cared  to  say,  and  thinking  to  get 
his  mind  on  something  else,  said: 

"Let's  have  a  game  of  checkers  while  we  wait. 
We  can  make  those  men  jump  around,  if  the  ones 
outside  can't,"  she  said,  laughingly,  as  she  brought 
out  the  black  and  red  checked  board  which  stood 
for  one  of  the  old  man's  favorite  games.  This  in- 
deed helped  to  entertain  him,  although  both  were 
on  the  alert  every  moment.  Between  every  game, 
and  often  in  the  midst  of  one,  Emily  ran  to  peer 
out  the  window. 

Ten  o'clock  came,  eleven,  and  twelve,  and  then 
they  heard  a  bark.  Rover  was  at  the  door.  In  an 
instant  Emily  was  there.  The  faithful  fellow  came 
in,  went  to  both,  wagged  his  tail,  and  lay  down  be- 
side the  cat,  which  waked  as  some  of  the  cold 
snow  from  Rover  fell  on  her  head.  Emily  watched 
him.  In  an  instant,  she  saw  securely  bound  to  the 
dog's  collar,  with  a  red  string,  a  tiny  package  wrap- 
ped up  in  one  of  Henry's  rubber  gloves  which  he 
always  carried  in  his  bag.  She  caught  her  scis- 
sors from  her  sewing  basket  and  cut  the  several 
threads  holding  it.  Then  she  almost  breathlessly 
pulled  out  the  crumpled  piece  of  paper  on  which 
in  Henry's  "dreadful  scrawling,"  as  she  always 
called  it,  she  found  the  words : 


142  THE  PROBLEM 

"Don't  worry.  Am  all  right.  Had  to  stop  at 
Jones's.  Harry  broke  leg.  Won't  be  home  till 
morning. 

"HENRY." 

Somehow,  the  words  did  not  look  "scrawly"  to- 
night; they  looked  beautiful  to  her,  so  beautiful 
that  she  raised  the  paper  to  her  lips  and  kissed 
them. 

"O,  father,  listen,"  she  cried.  The  note  was 
read  to  him,  and  then  she  said,  "I'm  so  glad,  but 
wasn't  he  a  dear  to  send  it?" 

As  she  spoke  the  last  words,  she  thought  of 
Rover;  and,  kneeling  beside  him  saw  that  he  was 
completely  tired  out.  He  lay  stretched  full  length, 
his  eyes  closed,  and  his  tongue  half  out  of  his 
mouth.  Rover  was  her  pet.  It  was  Rover  who 
had  brought  her  the  good  news  from  Henry.  Ro- 
ver should  have  his  share  of  the  credit.  What  could 
she  do  for  him?  She  thought  a  moment  and  then 
flew  to  the  kitchen,  coming  back  with  a  dish  of  hot 
milk,  into  which  pepper,  salt  and  broken  pieces  of 
bread  had  found  their  way.  With  a  little  coaxing 
Emily  succeeded  in  getting  him  up  to  eat;  in  a  few 
minutes  he  seemed  to  feel  better,  shook  himself, 
walked  around  the  room,  and  then  back  to  his  old 
place.  There  Emily  left  him  when  they  went  to 
bed,  and  left  near  him  the  dish  filled  almost  to  the 
brim  with  milk. 

Although  she  went  to  bed,  she  did  not  find 
sleep  until  after  the  clock  struck  three  in  the  morn- 


WELCOME  NEWS  143 

ing,  when,  to  her  amusement  afterward,  she 
dreamed  of  summer  time  and  flowers.  Shortly  af- 
ter seven,  she  was  wakened  by  the  sound  of  men's 
voices  and  heavy  bells.  The  snow-plow  was  out 
with  its  full  force  of  men  and  horses.  Emily  soon 
found  that  Mr.  Livermore  was  also  up;  had  re- 
built the  open  fire  to  add  as  much  cheer  to  the  place 
as  possible ;  and  also  had  the  teakettle  boiling,  pre- 
paratory to  breakfast.  Rover  was  his  old  self 
again.  They  needed  only  Henry,  now,  to  make 
the  circle  complete. 

They  had  scarcely  finished  breakfast,  when  Ro- 
ver started  for  the  door  and  barked.  This  time  his 
mistress  opened  it  without  a  question,  and  watched 
him  bound  down  the  road.  In  less  than  an  hour 
she  heard  the  sound  of  their  own  bells,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  saw  Henry  drive  into  the  yard  with 
Rover  in  the  pung  beside  him. 

Emily,  foreseeing  the  difficulty  Henry  would  find 
on  reaching  home,  and  knowing  how  tired  he 
would  be,  had  called  to  one  of  the  men  handling 
the  plow,  and  through  him  had  gotten  two  other 
men  to  shovel  their  own  driveway,  as  well  as  in 
front  of  the  barn  and  shed. 

Throwing  a  cape  over  her  shoulders,  she  ran  out 
to  meet  her  husband. 

"Well,  little  girl,"  he  said  as  he  kissed  her. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come !  But  do  tell  me  how 
you  found  Rover  last  night,"  she  said,  anxiously. 

"Got  on  your  overshoes?"  he  asked,  instead  of 
answering  her  question. 


144  THE  PROBLEM 

"Yes,  they  are  on,  and  I  won't  take  cold,"  she 
said,  drawing  the  hood  over  her  head.  "Tell  me 
where  you  found  him,  Henry." 

"O,  down  here  about  two  miles.  Was  on  my 
way  back  from  Mrs.  Miller's — Jones,  there,  was 
stuck  in  the  snow — lost  the  road.  Rove  found  him, 
and  knowing  the  team  was  coming,  stuck  to  him 
until  he  could  call  me.  Their  boy  broke  his  leg." 

"You  said  'broken  leg'  in  the  note,"  said  Emily. 

"Everyone  scared  of  the  storm,  couldn't  get  a 
team  anywhere,  and  he  started  afoot  for  me,"  ex- 
plained Henry  as  he  unloosened  the  horse  and  led 
him  into  the  stable. 

"Don't  come  any  further,  Em,"  he  continued. 
It  isn't  shoveled  good,  here.  I'll  be  in  in  a  minute. 
Better  run  in  and  I'll  tell  you  the  rest  there.  How's 
father?" 

"All  right,"  answered  Emily,  "and  I  was  so 
glad  he  was  here,"  she  called  back. 

While  Henry  ate  his  breakfast, — the  second  one 
for  the  morning,  although  more  appetizing  than 
his  previous  one,  Emily  heard  the  rest  of  the  story. 

"I  wouldn't  have  slept  a  wink  if  it  hadn't  have 
been  for  Rover  and  the  note,"  she  said. 

"I  felt  last  night,  Rove  was  worth  his  weight  in 
gold,"  he  answered.  "I  knew  he  would  come 
straight  home,  and  then  you  wouldn't  worry.  I 
had  feared  before  that  you  might  be  wishing  you 
had  never  married  a  doctor,"  he  added  playfully. 

"If  I  hadn't  married  you  I  would  never  have 
married  anybody,"  she  answered,  emphatically,  go- 


WELCOME  NEWS  145 

ing  around  to  the  chair  he  had  pushed  back  and 
climbing  into  his  lap. 

"Hear  her,  father?  Do  you  suppose  she  means 
it?"  he  asked,  roguishly. 

"I  think  she  does.  Emily  is  Emily,  and  means 
what  she  says,  you  know,"  answered  the  old  man 
rather  seriously,  Emily  thought,  but  Henry  under- 
stood. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THE  LITTLE  STRANGER 

ONE  of  Willa's  delights  was  to  go  to  the 
postoffice  for  the  mail.  At  first  her  moth- 
er had  insisted  on  her  carrying  a  small 
bag  for  that  purpose,  but  now  Miss  Wil- 
la  felt  she  was  big  enough  to  carry  it  "like  papa," 
and  she  did.    The  postmaster  and  his  wife,  as  well 
as  many  of  the  townspeople  who  invariably  gath- 
ered there  at  the  same  hours,  expected  to  see  little 
"Red  Riding  Hood,"   as  they  called  her,   come 
marching  in.    The  child  wore  a  little  red  coat  com- 
ing to  the  bottom  of  her  dress,  and  a  red  velvet 
hood.    A  white  lamb's  wool  collar  and  muff  added 
to  these  made  Willa  present  a  picture  fair  enough 
to  cheer  any  tired  heart. 

One  cold  winter's  Saturday,  the  Doctor  was 
called  on  a  trip  which  took  him  past  the  office. 
Willa  rode  there  with  him,  ran  in  for  the  mail,  let 
him  look  over  the  addresses,  and  then  started  home 
with  it  in  a  hurry,  as  he  had  said,  "A  letter  from 
Aunt  Mabel,  I  guess." 

"O,  won't  mama  be  pleased?  She  was  wishing 
this  morning  for  one.  Good-by,"  said  Willa  as  she 
kissed  him;  and  then  she  wiped  her  face,  for  his 
mustache  was  frosty,  but  Willa  didn't  care.  Papa 
was  papa,  and  she  couldn't  leave  him,  even  for  a 
few  hours,  without  her  "good-by"  kiss. 

146 


THE  LITTLE  STRANGER          147 

"Mama,  mama,  one  from  Auntie  Mabel,  one 
from  Auntie  Mabel,"  shouted  Willa,  rushing  into 
the  house,  her  cheeks  almost  the  color  of  her  coat 
and  hood. 

"Papa  said  so,"  she  added,  picking  out  the  right 
one. 

"No,  from  Hallie,"  answered  Mrs.  Warren  as 
soon  as  she  saw  the  writing. 

"O,  about  the  baby,  quick,"  cried  Willa,  taking 
off  her  furs,  hood  and  coat  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

Willa's  love  for  "Auntie  Mabel,"  Hallie,  and 
the  new  baby  the  post  card  had  told  about  made 
her  have  her  full  share  of  interest  in  the  contents 
of  the  letter ;  but  Willa  had  been  brought  up  a  lady, 
and  she  now  took  her  little  chair  and  placed  it  be- 
side her  mother's,  looking  up  at  her  expectantly, 
hopefully,  and  yet  silently  until  her  mother  had  fin- 
ished reading : 

"DEAR  MARGARET: — 

"As  you  already  know  by  my  post  card,  Rich- 
ard Warren  Irving  arrived  safe  and  sound  on  New 
Year's  eve.  Mabel  has  been  at  me  to  write  to  you 
for  a  week,  but  every  day  seems  so  full  I  haven't 
got  to  it  before.  Both  she  and  the  baby  are  doing 
finely.  She  sat  up  to-day  for  the  first  time,  but  she 
did  not  stay  long. 

"I  do  wish  you  could  see  the  youngster.  He 
weighed  eight  and  a  half  pounds,  and  has  gained 
eight  ounces  already,  but  he  ought  to  gain  for  he 
eats  like  a  little  pig. 


148  THE  PROBLEM 

"His  hair  is  light  like  Clifford's  and  was  long 
enough  to  part  and  comb  around.  I  just  drew  off 
an  outline  of  his  little  hand,  and  will  put  it  in  the 
letter  for  Willa  to  see. 

"Speaking  of  his  weight  I  shall  have  to  tell  you 
about  two  old  ladies  who  came  in  the  other  day  to 
see  him.  They  did  not  come  together,  but  their 
calls  happened  to  overlap,  and  they  were  here  at 
the  same  time.  When  they  were  told  how  much 
he  weighed,  one  piped  up  in  a  most  rasping  tone, 
and  said,  'Do  you  know,  when  I  was  born  they  said 
I  weighed  only  a  pound  and  a  half,  and  my  moth- 
er's wedding  ring  went  clean  up  to  my  shoulder.' 

"The  other  one  evidently  did  not  mean  to  be 
eclipsed,  and  she  said,  proudly,  'Well,  I  beat  that. 
I  only  weighed  fifteen  ounces,  and  they  said,  course 
I  don't  remember  it,  but  they  said  the  doctor  took 
me  and  lowered  me  into  a  new  coffee  pot  that  sat 
on  the  table,  and  the  cover  went  down.' 

"  'For  the  land  sakes !'  exclaimed  the  first  one. 
'And  did  you  live?' 

"  'Why,  they  said  I  did,  and  that  I  grew  nice- 
ly,' the  other  answered,  soberly. 

"They  were  both  in  dead  earnest,  and  honest, 
Margaret,  I  thought  I  should  explode,  but  Mabel 
gave  me  a  look  that  made  me  put  the  check  rein 
on  for  then,  although  ever  since  I  haven't  been 
able  to  think  of  it  without  laughing. 

"I  truly  do  not  know  which  is  the  happier,  Ma- 
bel or  Clifford.  If  ever  a  man  hated  to  start  for 
business  mornings,  he  does.  I  wish  I  could  step 


THE  LITTLE  STRANGER          149 

in  some  day  to  sec  Em  and  Henry.  If  they  are 
half  so  happy  as  you  and  Hunt  and  Mabel  and 
Clifford,  I  fear  I  should  begin  to  wish  that  my 
'affa-ni-ty'  as  I  call  him  would  come.  I  haven't 
seen  him  yet,  though.  I  am  dead  sure  of  that.  I 
guess  mine  must  have  died  when  he  was  a  little 
fellow,  and  if  so,  I  am  doomed  for  'old-maid- 
hood,'  for  I  never,  never  will  marry  a  man  that  I 
do  not  care  anything  about,  and  they  are  the  only 
ones  that  have  come  along  yet.  Em  used  to  say 
that  I  was  too  'futhy'  as  she  called  it,  but  I  think 
it  is  something  to  be  fussy  about,  don't  you  ? 

"Mabel's  home  is  just  a  dream  of  a  place.  Here 
it  is  January,  and  I  wish  you  could  see  their  lawn. 
It  would  make  you  forget  all  about  the  snow  drifts 
that  you  must  be  having  there  by  this  time. 

"Uncle  Dick  is  a  darling.  He  grows  better  and 
better  every  time  I  see  him.  It  seems  so  strange 
now  to  have  him  a  real  live  uncle,  so  full  of  fun. 
and  so  lovely,  when  all  my  life  he  has  seemed  just 
some  kind  of  a  second  hand  relation  that  I  could 
only  hear  about  and  never  see. 

"I  hear  the  baby  calling.  He  doesn't  say  'auntie' 
yet,  but  something  else  that  is  just  as  emphatic. 
Mabel  will  write  just  as  soon  as  she  is  able. 

"Lots  of  love  to  you  all,  from 

"HALLIE." 

Mrs.  Warren  had,  silently,  during  this  reading 
slipped  the  little  paper  hand  over  to  Willa  who  took 
it  with  a  little,  "O—-O — o"  under  her  breath,  after 


1 50  THE  PROBLEM 

which  she  placed  it  over  and  under  each  of  her  own 
plump  hands  and  tried  to  decide  from  which  hand 
of  the  baby's  it  came,  until  her  mother  had  reached 
the  end,  when  she  turned  to  Willa,  ready  to  answer 
the  dozen  or  more  questions  that  were  likely  to 
come  thick  and  fast. 

The  Doctor  returned  and  the  letter  had  to  be 
read  to  him.  After  laughing  over  some  parts  of  it, 
and  talking  seriously  over  others,  Mrs.  Warren 
said: 

"I  am  so  glad.  Mabel  earned  all  the  happiness 
that  can  come  to  her." 

"And  Hallie  is  no  easy  mark,  either,"  answered 
the  Doctor.  "There  is  a  whole  lot  to  that  girl, 
after  all." 

"I  know  it,  and  she  was  such  a  little  flyaway  1 
Father  always  loved  her ;  in  fact,  he  was  about  the 
only  father  the  girl  ever  knew,"  replied  Mrs.  War- 
ren. "I  remember  one  Sunday  afternoon  she  had 
gotten  her  mother's  consent  to  come  over  for  just 
one  hour,  and  I  can  see  father  now,"  she  said 
laughing.  "He  had  Hallie  up  on  his  lap,  and  she 
parted  his  hair  in  the  middle,  braided  each  side  of 
the  front;  then  she  braided  his  whiskers  in  sev- 
eral strands  and  tied  her  doll's  ribbons  on  the  dif- 
ferent braids.  She  was  up  to  something  all  the 
time." 

"How  old  was  she  then,  mama?"  asked  Willa, 
excitedly. 

"About  six,  I  guess." 

"You  haven't  any  whiskers,  but  I  wouldn't  braid 


THE  LITTLE  STRANGER          151 

them  if  you  had,"  said  Willa  seriously,  climbing  up 
in  her  father's  lap. 

"You  wouldn't?"  he  answered,  laughing,  and 
putting  his  arm  around  her. 

"N-o.  You  are  my  papa,  and  you  wouldn't  look 
like  a  man  then,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head  and 
drawing  her  lips  together  tightly,  as  though  she 
had  settled  the  question  for  all  time. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
TAKING  ROOT  IN  NEW  SOIL 

SEVEN  years  have  passed.  Willa  is  no  long- 
er a  tiny  girl  in  the  Woodrow  school,  but  a 
pupil  in  the  High  School  at  Ripley.  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Warren  are  next  door  neighbors 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holway. 

The  question  of  leaving  Woodrow  had  been  a 
big  one  to  them,  and  one  that  was  long  considered 
before  a  final  decision  was  reached;  and  when  it 
did  come,  it  was  made  on  Willa's  account.  They 
felt  that  she  could  not  be  spared  from  the  home. 
If  she  must  leave  in  order  to  enter  another  school, 
they  would  leave,  too;  and  all  this  was  strength- 
ened by  the  fact  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holway  were 
no  longer  young,  and  more  and  more  they  urged 
the  coming  of  their  children  to  the  old  home  town. 
The  change  had  at  last  been  effected,  and  all 
were  glad.  The  Doctor's  name  was  already  so 
well  known  in  Ripley  that  his  practice  from  the  first 
was  large,  and  much  less  wearing,  as  many  long, 
hard  drives  were  saved.  Nevertheless,  the  time 
never  came  when  he  was  not  glad  for  his  stay  in 
Woodrow  and  all  that  it  had  done  for  him. 

Si  and  Hannah  had  remained  in  Woodrow ;  and 
more  than  that,  Si  had  established  a  business  for 
himself.  One  of  the  Doctor's  horses  had  in  some 
way  in  the  past  contracted  a  spavin,  and  Si,  in  his 

152 


TAKING  ROOT  IN  NEW  SOIL     153 

treatment  of  it,  had  accidentally  discovered  a  rem- 
edy. The  remedy  had  been  tried  so  effectively  on 
not  only  the  Doctor's  horse,  but  neighbors'  horses 
as  well  that  the  idea  occurred  to  Hannah  one  day 
that  Si  might  add  to  his  income  by  the  general  sale 
of  it.  This  idea  stuck,  when  once  in  Si's  mind;  for 
he  had  ambitions  as  well  as  other  men.  He  had 
not  only  Joseph,  now  eight  years  old,  but  Lawrence 
four,  and  Si  meant  that  they  should  have  their 
chance  when  the  right  time  should  come.  With  Dr. 
Warren's  consent,  he  had  gone  to  work  in  his  spare 
time,  and  Hannah  worked  in  hers.  Before  long, 
even  Joe  was  able  to  put  labels  on  some  of  the  bot- 
tles, not  very  rapidly  at  first,  but  improving  each 
day.  A  mail  order  business  had  been  established, 
and  the  three  were  kept  busy. 

At  the  time  of  Dr.  Warren's  leaving  Woodrow, 
Si  bought  his  place,  made  a  good  sized  payment, 
and  gave  his  notes  for  the  balance. 

Trix  could  neither  be  sold  or  taken;  hence  it 
was  agreed  that  he  should  be  left  at  the  old  place, 
and  that  little  Joe  and  Lawrence  should  drive  him. 
Willa  was  getting  too  old  for  him  now,  and  none 
could  bear  the  thought  of  his  going  among 
strangers. 

Before  many  months  passed,  Si  had  had  to  hire 
a  man,  and  before  the  year  closed,  some  other  extra 
help.  A  part  of  his  old  house  served  for  factory, 
and  if  business  continued  to  improve  at  the  present 
rate  of  progress,  the  whole  house  would  eventually 
be  needed  for  that  purpose. 


154  THE  PROBLEM 

Willa,  after  the  move  was  made,  enjoyed  two 
homes.  Grandma  and  grandpa  were  so  near  that 
the  hours  out  of  school  were  generally  divided  be- 
tween the  two  places ;  in  fact,  they  seemed  like  one 
family. 

It  had  taken  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holway  a  few  weeks 
to  grow  accustomed  to  thinking  of  this  girl,  now 
almost  as  tall  as  Margaret,  as  their  little  Willa. 
Her  father  and  mother  had  seen  the  changes  come 
so  gradually  that  they  had  scarcely  been  conscious 
of  them,  but  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Holway  it  was 
different.  The  last  two  years  had  indeed  wrought 
a  great  change  in  her,  and  nothing  seemed  to 
change  her  more  in  their  mind  than  the  tying  to- 
gether of  the  long  curls  at  the  back  of  the  neck. 
They  grieved  over  this,  and  one  day  to  please  them 
Willa  let  them  loose.  They  were  forced  to  admit 
then  that  she  was  too  big  for  the  old  way,  and 
that  the  change  had  been  necessary  as  Margaret 
had  said. 

In  school,  Willa  led  the  freshman  class.  In 
reality,  for  the  past  two  years  she  had  been  ready 
to  enter  a  fitting  school,  but  Woodrow  had  none, 
and  she  had  done  much  outside  work  with  her  fath- 
er as  tutor. 

Pupils  are  often  times  jealous  of  a  "leader"  but 
no  one  was  jealous  of  Willa.  She  was  the  pet  of 
the  school,  with  teachers,  with  boys  and  girls,  but 
her  popularity  did  not  turn  her  head  in  the  least. 
She  was  just  Willa  as  she  had  always  been. 


TAKING  ROOT  IN  NEW  SOIL     155 

"You  know  Mrs.  Williams?"  said  Willa  one 
night  at  dinner.  "Well  she  is  just  as  dear  to  me  as 
she  can  be.  I  just  love  her,  but  almost  every  schol- 
ar there  complains  of  her  sarcasm.  I  do  get  cross 
with  her  in  class  the  way  she  speaks  to  others,  but 
she  is  good  to  me.  Now,  to-day,  in  rhetoric,  she 
called  on  Billy  Burns,  and  asked  him  a  question," 
here  Willa  laughed  before  she  could  continue. 

"Billy  got  up  and  said,  'Well,  I  don't  know, 
but—' 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Burns.  We'll  have  some  one 
who  does  know,'  Mrs.  Williams  said,  and  called  on 
me.  I  answered  her  and  answered  her  correctly, 
but,  honest,  I  was  so  cross  at  the  tone  she  used  on 
Billy.  There  is  scarcely  a  day  when  she  doesn't 
snap  up  somebody,  and  I  feel  just  as  though  she 
had  said  it  to  me ;  but,  outside  of  class,  if  I  see  her 
for  two  minutes,  I  forget  all  about  it,  and  love  her 

just  as  well  as  ever." 
******** 

And  thus  the  time  went  on.  The  name  "Willa" 
seemed  like  a  password  into  the  good  graces  of 
hearts  everywhere,  at  home,  at  church,  at  school,  at 
play.  No  good  time  was  quite  so  good  if  Willa 
was  not  present;  and  nothing  hard  or  disagreeable 
was  quite  so  bad  if  Willa  was  in  the  midst. 

Her  most  intimate  girl  friend  had  been  chosen 
from  among  the  poorer  girls,  a  Miss  Dorothy 
Weber  from  a  country  town  nearly  thirty  miles 
from  Ripley.  Dorothy  stood  next  to  Willa  in 
everything,  and  in  some  classes  took  an  equal  rank. 


156  THE  PROBLEM 

Whether  because  of  this,  or  because  of  some  innate 
quality  of  refinement  which  Willa  had  at  once  de- 
tected in  Dorothy,  a  friendship  grew  up  between 
them.  Night  after  night  Dorothy  stayed  with 
Willa.  The  home  was  always  open  to  her;  for 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren  were  pleased  at  Willa's 
choice.  They  knew  that  such  companionship  was 
good  for  her;  besides,  Dorothy's  only  home  in  the 
town  was  a  boarding-house.  They  meant  to  do  for 
this  little  stranger  as  they  would  wish  some  one 
to  do  for  Willa  if  she  were  similarly  situated. 

"Mama,"  said  Willa  one  day.  "You  know  I  do 
pity  Dorothy,  awfully.  I  guess  her  stepmother  is 
hateful  to  her.  Her  father  is  good,  though.  He 
won't  have  her  abused  if  he  knows  it,  but  a  lot  of 
times  Dorothy  doesn't  tell  him.  It  must  be  just 
awful  to  have  to  live  with  any  mother  but  your  very 
own,  mustn't  it?  I  just  couldn't  stand  it  without 
you,  mama,  I  just  couldn't,"  she  said,  putting  both 
arms  around  Mrs.  Warren. 

For  several  seconds,  Willa's  only  response  was 
the  tightening  of  the  motherly  arms  around  her. 
When  the  woman  did  dare  to  speak,  she  simply 
said: 

"And  it  seems  to  me  I  couldn't  stand  it  without 
you,  dear." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

TIGHTENING  THE  HEART  STRINGS 

DURING     these     same     seven     years, 
changes  had  also  come  to  Emily.     She 
had  become  the  mother  of  a  robust, 
brown-eyed,  brown-haired  boy,  now  al- 
most three  years  old.     She  and  her  sister,  Mabel, 
had  not  seen  each  other  since  the  year  of  Emily's 
marriage,  but  Hallie  had  visited  her  the  summer 
before. 

It  scarcely  need  be  said  that  the  "boy"  in  each 
family  seemed  almost  the  idol  of  the  home,  so 
dearly  was  he  loved ;  and  each  mother  felt  that  she 
could  almost  see  and  know  the  child  of  the  other, 
such  vivid  accounts  and  so  many  pictures  had 
passed  between  them. 

Charles  Stanley  Livermore  certainly  held  an  im- 
portant place  in  the  home  and  hearts  of  Henry  and 
Emily;  and  also  in  the  heart  of  his  grandfather, 
for  whom  he  was  named,  which  honor  had  in  a 
measure  compensated  the  old  man  for  his  disap- 
pointment in  not  having  a  girl  added  to  the  family 
in  the  form  of  another  "little  Emily."  Such  a  won- 
derful child,  however,  had  the  little  lad  proven 
himself  to  be  that  three  or  four  times  a  year  the 
old  man  had  to  visit  him,  remaining  usually  two  or 
three  weeks  each  time,  except  in  winter  when  he 
was  likely  to  stay  longer  to  spare  himself  the  lone- 

157 


158  THE  PROBLEM 

liness  of  his  own  old  home,  which  he  had  always 
insisted  on  keeping  just  as  his  own  father  had  left 
it.  During  such  a  visit,  the  summer  when  little 
Stanley  was  three  years  old,  Emily  began  taking 
the  child  to  church,  and  a  portion  of  the  first  Sun- 
day afternoon  following  this  experiment,  she  im- 
proved by  writing  to  Mabel  and  Hallie : 

"I  have  got  to  tell  you  about  Stanley,"  she  wrote. 
"We  took  him  to  church  this  morning  for  the  first 
time.  Henry  and  grandpa  went,  too,  and  at  first 
Stanley  saw  so  much  to  take  up  his  attention  that 
he  was  just  as  good  as  a  child  could  be — just  the 
usual  wiggles  out  of  him  that  are  always  in  children, 
until  the  minister  was  about  half  through,  when  he 
assumed  a  deep,  loud  voice  and  cried : 

'  'Moses,  Moses,  where  art  thou?' 

"In  a  moment  Stanley  got  on  his  feet,  leaned 
over  the  back  of  the  pew,  and  twisted  his  head  this 
way  and  that,  until  I  put  one  arm  around  him,  and 
the  other  on  his  skirts  and  whispered,  'What  is  it, 
dear?' 

"  'Mose.  Man  want  Mose,'  he  said,  soberly 
looking  around. 

"I  sensed  it  then  and  thought  I  should  scream. 
He  said  it  so  loud  that  some  of  those  sitting  near 
could  hear,  and  knew  at  once  that  Stanley  was  look- 
ing for  his  cat,  'Mose.'  Henry  and  grandpa  thought 
that  was  pretty  good.  From  that  time  on  Stanley 
was  restless,  and  continued  his  looking.  When 
we  came  in  the  house  and  he  saw  Mose,  he  stamped 


TIGHTENING  HEART  STRINGS    159 

his  little  foot,  and  said: 

'  'Man  want  Mose.  Mose  no  come.  Mose 
naughty  kitty,'  and  even  now  he  does  not  seem  rec- 
onciled to  the  unfaithful  attitude  of  poor  Mose. 

"Grandpa  tried  to  read  after  dinner,  and  every 
little  while  he  would  burst  out  laughing,  saying, 
'Mose  no  come!'  He  certainly  does  love  Stanley 
and  Stanley  loves  him.  Henry  says  the  child  is 
making  his  father  over  faster  than  anything  else 
ever  could.  Yesterday  it  rained  and  you  should 
have  seen  Stanley  and  grandpa  on  the  stairs  playing 
drive  horse.  I  asked  Stanley  what  he  was  doing, 
and  he  said,  'Liv'in  go'cies.'  Every  few  minutes  he 
had  to  come  to  ask  me  for  my  order,  make  believe 
write  it  down,  and  then  start  back  for  his  play 
team,  tucking  his  pencil  behind  his  ear  as  he  sees 
the  grocery  boys  do.  He's  a  boy  clear  through, 
and  I  am  glad  of  it.  If  there  is  anything  I  hate 
to  see  it  is  a  sissified  boy  or  man.  I  want  him  to  be 
a  boy,  every  inch  of  him,  for  the  more  'boy'  he  is, 
the  more  of  a  man  he  will  make." 

A  few  days  later,  another  letter  read: 

"Grandpa  went  home  to-day.  Stanley  is  so  lone- 
ly that  Henry  has  taken  him  off  on  one  of  his  vis- 
its. If  Henry  isn't  going  where  there  is  anything 
contagious,  I  like  him  to  have  Stanley  go.  It  keeps 
him  out,  and  it  will  make  the  two  greater  'chums' 
when  Stanley  is  older. 

"Henry  has  just  been  chosen  president  of  a  med- 


160  THE  PROBLEM 

ical  association  that  has  been  organized  in  the 
county.  He  works  hard,  and  to  my  delight  he  is 
constantly  growing.  He  has  as  great  an  aversion 
to  getting  into  a  rut  as  I  always  had,  so  we  grow 
along  together.  What  he  reads  I  read. 

"By  the  way,  you  remember  our  'dime'  box  that 
we  have  kept  ever  since  we  were  married?  Well, 
we  made  another  deposit  to-day,  twenty-five  dol- 
lars. That  makes  five  fifty  that  we  have  saved  just 
in  dimes  toward  our  European  trip.  We  are  going 
just  as  soon  as  Stanley  gets  a  little  older.  We  will 
put  enough  more  with  it  and  go  on  our  'honey- 
moon' for  sure.  Hallie  has  promised  to  take  care 
of  Stanley  when  we  are  ready.  I  am  so  anxious 
for  Henry  to  have  at  least  six  months'  study  in 
Vienna  when  he  does  go.  That  seems  a  long  time 
to  leave  our  baby.  I  expect  I  shall  grow  chicken 
hearted  when  the  time  comes,  but  I  mustn't  cross 
the  bridge  until  I  come  to  it;  besides,  so  long  as 
Stanley  will  be  looked  out  for  in  every  way,  I  shall 
feel  that  Henry  needs  me  the  more.  Does  Clif- 
ford seem  to  you  just  a  great  big  baby  boy?  That 
is  just  what  Henry  is.  Men  are  only  boys  grown 
big,  after  all,  aren't  they?  I  suppose  he  gets  so 
tired  and  wrought  up  over  different  cases  that  when 
he  comes  home  he  wants  to  relax  and  take  all  the 
pleasure  he  can.  No  doubt  some  women  would 
think  it  was  a  bother,  but  I  never  do.  I  like  it. 
There  is  nothing  that  makes  me  happier  than  to  see 
that  great  big  tall  man  coming  to  me  about  all  his 
little  plans  and  troubles.  He  says  I  always  un- 


TIGHTENING  HEART  STRINGS   161 

tangle  them  for  him,  but  he  always  does  that  with 
mine,  so  it  is  only  fair  play  after  all. 

"There !  No  more  writing,  dear.  Here  they 
are  now — Stanley's  little  hands  locked  around  Hen- 
ry's arm,  and  both  faces  looking  so  happy.  Shall 
have  to  go  to  them,  for  they'll  both  want  'mama' 
the  first  thing." 

Thus  the  two  sisters,  so  widely  separated,  kept 
constantly  in  touch  with  each  other,  and  with  the 
other's  home  life;  and  thus  Emily  and  Henry  con- 
stantly climbed  higher  and  higher,  all  the  while  be- 
coming more  and  more  unto  each  other.  The  sun- 
shine of  each  was  made  by  being  the  sunshine  of 
the  other,  and  watching  lest  the  smallest  spark  of 
selfishness  should  smoulder  on  their  hearth. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  TRIO 

"    ~w    AM  just  going  to  write  to  your  father,  and 
ask  him  if  you  can't  go,"  said  Willa. 

She  was  talking  to  Dorothy  shortly  be- 
M  fore  the  close  of  the  spring  term  in  their 
junior  year.  Willa  had  the  consent  of  her  father 
and  mother  to  her  little  plan,  which  was  that  she, 
Dorothy  and  Amy  Bradford,  daughter  of  the 
cashier  in  the  bank  of  which  her  grandfather  was 
president,  should  go  for  two  weeks  and  board  with 
Hannah  and  Si  at  Woodrow. 

Neither  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren,  nor  grandpa  and 
grandma  wondered  that  Willa  wanted  to  see  the 
old  place  and  her  old  friends.  The  change  would 
do  her  good  and  her  two  friends,  also.  Amy's 
parents  had  gladly  given  their  consent;  for  Mr. 
Bradford  and  Mr.  Holway  were  the  best  of 
friends,  and  the  question  now  was,  "Could  Dorothy 
join  them?" 

Arrangements  had  already  been  made  with  Si 
and  Hannah  who  had  instantly  felt  that  a  visit 
from  Willa  was  all  they  needed  to  fill  their  cup  of 
happiness ;  for  business  had  been  good,  their  health 
good,  and  their  children  good.  What  more  could 
they  in  reason  ask? 

Willa  kept  her  word,  and  the  following  letter 
was  sent  to  Mr.  Weber,  after  being  sanctioned  by 

162 


THE  TRIO  163 

her  father  and  mother : 

"MR.  CHARLES  WEBER, 

BLANKTON,  MASS. 

DEAR  MR.  WEBER:  "You  have  never  seen  me, 
but  you  know  me  because  Dorothy  says  she  has  told 
you  all  about  me. 

"Papa,  mama,  and  I  have  a  plan,  but  we  cannot 
carry  it  out  without  your  consent.  The  plan  is  this : 
I  want  to  go  back  to  my  old  home  in  Woodrow  for 
a  two  weeks'  visit,  and  want  so  very,  very  much, 
Mr.  Weber,  to  have  Dorothy  and  Amy  Bradford, 
another  girl  friend  of  ours,  to  go  with  me.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bradford  have  consented,  and  now  we 
just  need  your  consent  to  make  us  a  happy  trio. 

"It  surely  will  do  Dorothy  a  lot  of  good,  and 
we  can  board  with  the  people  in  our  old  home. 
The  man  worked  for  papa  for  years,  so  we  know 
all  about  them.  It  is  the  dearest  place.  Dorothy 
will  be  my  guest,  you  understand.  I  am  inviting 
both  the  girls,  or  rather  the  invitation  is  from  papa, 
mama,  and  myself.  Please  say  'yes',  Mr.  Weber, 
and  we  will  promise  you  to  take  good  care  of  her 
and  to  send  her  home  safe  and  sound.  Please  let 
us  know  as  soon  as  you  can,  because  we  are  so  anx- 
ious about  it. 

"Sincerely  yours, 

"Dorothy's  friend, 

"WILLA  WARREN." 

At  the  last  minute,  Willa  insisted  on  having  her 


i<$4  THE  PROBLEM 

father's  and  mother's  signature  added  to  strengthen 
her  own,  and  to  prove  to  Mr.  Weber,  and  the  step- 
mother, too,  in  case  she  should  see  it,  that  it  was 
the  "genuine  thing,"  as  she  said.  She  also  took  the 
precaution  of  addressing  the  envelope  on  her  fath- 
er's typewriter,  because  one  day,  when  in  a  confi- 
dential mood  Dorothy  had  told  her  that  some  of 
the  letters  she  had  sent  her  father  had  never 
reached  him,  one  especially  when  she  had  asked  for 
a  little  extra  money  at  the  time  of  the  banquet  the 
year  before;  and  she  couldn't  help  feeling  that  it 
had  met  with  foul  play,  because,  during  her  next 
vacation  her  stepmother  had  sarcastically  hinted 
that  school  girls  to-day  thought  only  of  spending 
money,  and  dress,  dinners,  and  boys. 

"I  never  had  such  hard  work  to  hold  in  in  all 
my  life,"  cried  Dorothy,  at  the  time.  "You  know 
I  have  just  enough  to  get  along  with  and  that  is  all. 
She  plans  and  makes  my  clothes  as  she  sees  fit,  and 
I  have  to  wear  them  whether  I  like  them  or  not. 
Father  pays  the  school  expense,  of  course,  but  for 
spending  money!  You  know,  Willa,  how  little  I 
have !  And  I  never  go  with  any  boys,"  here  Dor- 
othy had  broken  down.  Throwing  herself  on  Wil- 
la's  couch  she  sobbed  as  though  her  heart  would 
break,  not  because  she  didn't  have  money,  not  be- 
cause of  any  one  thing,  but  just  because  she  had 
reached  the  end  of  her  rope,  and  nothing  but  a 
good  cry  could  make  her  again  adjust  herself  to 
her  present  situation. 

"Don't  think  of    it,    dear,"    answered    Willa, 


soothingly,  kneeling  by  Dorothy  and  burying  her 
own  head  on  the  pillow  beside  that  of  her  friend. 
"It  will  all  come  right  some  sweet  day,  as  I  al- 
ways say." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  ever  could  have  lived  through 
it  all,  if  it  hadn't  have  been — for — you,  and  your 
— father — and  mother,"  Dorothy  again  sobbed. 

"Well,  we  are  here,  and  we  are  going  to  stay 
here,  and  you  can  just  come  any  time  you  want  to," 
Willa  answered  in  her  most  comforting  tone. 
"Father  is  the  best  father,  and  mother  is  the  best 
mother  a  girl  ever  had.  I  just  know  they  are,  and 
I'll  share  them  with  you,  Dorothy.  They  love 
you,  too,"  added  Willa. 

Dorothy's  only  answer  was  the  extension  of  her 
left  arm  encircling  Willa's  neck,  and  more  sobs. 

"Be  brave,  dear,  and  we'll  pull  together,"  said 
Willa,  with  as  much  earnestness  as  though  she  was 
the  age  of  her  grandmother.  "You  shall  have  a 
home  just  as  long  as  I  have  one,  so  there!"  she 
added. 

"I'm  ashamed  of  myself,"  said  Dorothy,  sitting 
up  quickly,  and  putting  both  arms  around  Willa, 
"just  ashamed,  but — but — I  couldn't  help  it.  It — " 

"Don't  talk  about  it.  Let's  think  of  something 
to  do.  Say,  mama  said  she  would  help  you  fix  your 
blue  dress  for  the  social  the  way  you  wanted  it. 
Let's  go  over  to  your  room  and  get  it.  We  can  rip 
it  now,  and  then  we  will  get  supper  while  mama 
bastes  it  the  way  it  ought  to  go.  Hooray !  Come 
on,"  shouted  Willa,  dancing  across  the  room  and 


1 66  THE  PROBLEM 

back  again. 

"You  are  an  angel  and  so  is  your  mother,"  said 
Dorothy,  catching  her  and  giving  her  a  big  hug. 

Thus  the  two  girls  understood  each  other,  and 
thus  about  the  matter  in  question  Willa  had  known 
how  to  plan.  The  looked  for  letter  did  not  come 
for  a  full  week.  The  girls  were  growing  fearful 
lest  an  answer  in  the  negative  should  come,  or 
worse  still,  no  answer  at  all.  At  the  end  of  that 
time,  Willa  received  the  following: 

"My  LITTLE  GIRL'S  FRIEND  : 

"I  am  willing  for  Dorothy  to  go  with  you.  As 
you  say,  it  will  do  her  good,  and  I  thank  you  and 
your  father  and  mother  for  being  so  kind  to  her. 
I  wish  I  could  do  more  myself. 

"Yours  truly, 

"CHARLES  WEBER." 

"O,  goodie,  good,  good  1"  cried  Willa.  "Mama, 
look,  listen,"  and  she  read  the  message  that  had 
made  her  glad,  indeed. 

She  did  not  wait  to  see  Dorothy  before  writing 
to  Si  and  Hannah  that  they  were  surely  going,  and 
they  fulfilled  the  promise  the  Monday  following 

the  close  of  school. 
******** 

"By  Crackers !  Look  at  her,"  said  Si.  Then,  Si, 
Hannah,  Joseph,  Lawrence,  and  other  old  friends 
and  neighbors  looked,  for  three  young  women  were 
coming  down  over  the  car  steps,  and  the  head  one, 


THE  TRIO  167 

tall,  fair  skinned,  fair  haired,  with  dark  blue  eyes,  a 
radiantly  frank  face,  a  soulful  smile,  and  graceful 
step,  the  one  wearing  a  white  sailor  suit  and  jaunty 
girlish  hat  was  Willa,  their  Willa. 

The  days  that  followed  were  wonderful  days  in- 
deed, not  only  to  the  "trio,"  Hannah,  Si,  and  the 
children,  but  to  red  headed,  freckled  faced,  bashful 
Tommy  Tucker,  brother  of  Jimmie.  He  happened 
at  that  time  to  be  helping  Si  Campbell  get  in  his 
hay,  for  the  greater  part  of  Si's  attention  had  to  be 
given  to  the  factory  which  was  still  booming. 

Poor  Tommy!  He  felt  that  three  beautifully 
winged  angels  had  swooped  down  on  the  village  of 
Woodrow  and  landed  on  Si's  premises.  Certainly 
he  had  never  seen  anything  like  them  in  Woodrow 
before.  If  he  saw  Willa  he  was  sure  she  was  the 
most  beautiful;  if  Amy,  the  most  fairylike,  and  he 
constantly  watched  her,  if  he  could  do  so  without 
being  observed,  lest  she  spread  her  wings  and  fly 
away;  and  Dorothy?  Where  did  she  come  in? 
Tommy  felt  that  she  was  more  "just  girl"  than  eith- 
er of  the  others,  and  on  a  few  special  occasions  he 
had  answered  her  with  words  other  than  merely 
"yes'm,"  or  "no'm"  which  he  constantly  used  with 
the  others  when  he  felt  duty  bound  to  say  some- 
thing. Sometimes  at  night  Tommy  would  twist 
and  turn,  trying  to  form  a  mental  picture  of  this 
expression  or  that,  as  he  had  seen  it  on  one  of  their 
faces ;  and  then,  after  wearing  himself  out  with  his 
fanciful  day  dreams,  he  would  fall  asleep,  only 
to  dream  that  they  were  all  out  in  the  field  helping 


1 68  THE  PROBLEM 

him  to  rake  Si's  hay,  as  they  had  been  during  the 
day,  or  lounging  gracefully  on  a  load  of  hay  while 
Prince  and  Fred  hauled  it  into  the  barn.  One  night 
he  wakened  himself  by  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed, 
crying,  "Don't,  don't,  Miss  Willa,  you'll  fall."  He 
quickly  lay  back  on  his  pillow  and  felt  thankful 
that  the  others  were  so  far  away  they  could  not 
hear  him. 

Neither  the  girls  nor  Si  and  Hannah  were 
blind  to  the  effect  of  their  visit  on  Tommy's  peace 
of  mind. 

"It's  just  too  bad,  a  mean  old  shame,"  said  Willa 
one  day.  The  poor  boy  has  never  seen  enough  girls 
to  get  used  to  them.  We  must  do  something  to  let 
him  see  we  are  just  human  after  all.  What  can  it 
be?" 

"I  know.  I  know,"  cried  Dorothy.  "I  used  to 
play  it  up  to  Uncle  Sam's.  Quoit !  Let's  play  quoit 
after  supper. 

"How?    What?"  cried  both  the  others. 

"O,  I'll  show  you.  I'll  ask  him  for  a  horse 
shoe.  That  will  do  instead  of  a  ring.  It  will  give 
Tommy  something  to  do,  and  he'll  forget  all  about 
'Tommy  Tucker,'  see  if  he  doesn't." 

And  Tommy,  indeed,  did  forget  Tommy  Tuck- 
er. He  knew  for  once  that  he  was  "leader,"  that 
their  playing  was  inferior  to  his,  and  he  felt  once 
more  almost  a  hero;  he  could  look  at  them  in  a 
different  way  than  at  any  other  time  since  their  ar- 
rival. Before  this,  if  mowing  grass,  and  he  felt  a 
pair  or  two  pairs  of  eyes  on  him,  he  wielded  the 


THE  TRIO  169 

scythe  for  all  he  was  worth;  if  raking  hay,  one 
look  from  them  had  the  same  effect,  until  all  noticed 
it,  and  Si  said,  laughingly: 

"By  crackers  !  It's  a  good  thing  for  me  that  you 
girls  came.  It's  saved  me  gittin'  another  man,  fer 
sure.  You've  made  Tommy  smarter  than  liniment 
ever  made  any  horse  I  ever  see." 

"Tommy'll  be  all  right  now,  you  see  if  he  isn't," 
Willa  said  after  the  game  of  quoit. 

"Of  course,  he's  all  right.  Never  worked  so  well 
in  all  his  life,"  laughed  Si. 

"Poor  boy!  .It's  a  shame  to  laugh  about  him," 
said  Amy,  "but  he  is  so  funny  I  can't  help  it.  He 
just  needs  to  get  some  of  the  corners  worn  off, 
that's  all." 

"Well,  we've  worn  off  one,"  said  Amy. 

"And  the  others  may  go  off  themselves,"  added 
Willa. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

DOUBLE  HONORS 

WILLA'S  graduation  from  the  Ripley 
High  School  came  on  her  i8th  birth- 
day. In  honor  of  this  double  event 
there  came  from  her  parents  and 
grandparents  a  coal  black  saddle  horse,  weighing  a 
little  less  than  ten  hundred  pounds,  and  a  beauty  of 
a  saddle,  with  russet  trimmings  and  silver  mount- 
ings. It  was  not  exactly  like  Amy's,  which  she  had 
longingly  admired,  but  to  her  delight  it  was  equally 
as  pretty.  Willa  had  felt  when  she  had  been  as- 
signed the  valedictory  that  she  had  honor  enough, 
but  this, — she  was  not  prepared  for  this ;  and  that 
morning  when  she  was  called  to  the  door  to  wel- 
come the  beautiful  dark  complexioned  stranger,  she 
stood  speechless.  When  she  did  open  her  lips,  a 
whole  sentence  in  Latin  poured  forth,  the  first  sen- 
tence in  the  valedictory,  which  for  weeks  had  been 
serging  through  her  brain  whether  awake  or  asleep. 
When  her  four  spectators  broke  into  a  laugh,  she 
sank  in  a  heap  on  the  top  step  of  the  porch.  "I — 
I — can't — say  anything,"  she  stammered. 

"Well,  well,  well,  what's  this?"  said  her  father, 
sitting  down  beside  her. 

Willa  wheeled  around  and  threw  both  her  beau- 
tiful plump  arms  around  his  neck,  and  tucked  her 
face  up  close  to  his  as  she  used  to  do  when  a 

170 


DOUBLE  HONORS  171 

child;  the  next  minute  she  kissed  him,  and  then 
flew  to  each  of  the  others  and  treated  them  in  the 
same  way.  Lastly,  her  "Black  Beauty,"  as  she 
called  him  was  visited,  and  her  head  rested  gently 
on  each  side  of  his  neck  and  against  his  face.  A 
friendship  was  then  and  there  formed  between 
them  never  to  be  broken.  Before  Willa  was  scarce- 
ly aware,  Amy  came  galloping  up,  for  the  night 
before  she  had  been  told  of  Willa's  coming  sur- 
prise and  asked  to  join  them  at  a  certain  hour. 

"O,  he's  a  beauty,  Willa.  Isn't  he  a  darling," 
she  cried,  leaping  from  her  own  mare,  a  dark  bay 
with  black  mane  and  tail. 

"Mine  is  the  best,  of  course,"  she  said,  with  mis- 
chief shining  out  through  each  of  her  big  blue  eyes, 
"but  yours  is  next,  Willa,  next.  Isn't  that  enough? 
You  wouldn't  have  me  go  back  on  Mollie,  would 
you  ?"  she  said,  going  to  her  own  pet  horse  and  put- 
ting her  arms  around  the  dappled  neck,  so  sleek 
and  shining. 

"You  know  I  wouldn't.  Yours  is  just  best  for 
you  because  you  love  her,  and  mine  is  best  for  me, 
because  I'm  going  to  love  him — do  love  him,"  she 
added,  following  Amy's  example  and  encircling 
Beauty's  neck. 

"Now  take  a  gallop,  both  of  you,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor. "Come  on,"  he  called,  stepping  toward  Willa, 
who  with  a  leap  went  from  her  father's  hand  into 
the  saddle,  and  away  she  rode,  pulling  rein  out- 
side the  gate  until  Amy  should  join  her. 

The  four  who  loved  her  so  dearly  watched  the 


172  THE  PROBLEM 

two  girls  canter  side  by  side  down  through  their 
own  street  and  out  of  sight.  Nearly  an  hour  passed 
before  they  heard  laughter  and  the  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs. 

"O,  he's  the  dearest,  dearest  horse  in  all  the 
world,"  cried  Willa.  "I  mean,  the  dearest  one  for 
me,"  she  added  roguishly,  looking  toward  Amy. 

"Well  put  in,  and  lucky  for  you  that  you  thought 
of  it,"  the  other  answered,  playfully. 

"Does  he  suit?"  asked  grandpa,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye. 

"Suit?  'You  are  the  best  foxes  a  little  girl  ever 
hed,'  "  laughingly  quoted  Willa  from  her  childish 
letter  which  had  ever  since  been  treasured  by  grand- 
pa and  grandma. 

Afternoon  came.  The  parts  were  given,  and 
diplomas  presented  in  the  usual  way.  No  girl 
there,  however,  carried  a  happier  heart  than  Willa 
Warren,  not  merely  because  of  the  honor  conferred 
on  her,  or  because  of  her  morning  gift,  but  princi- 
pally because  she  had  of  her  own  accord  chosen  to 
graduate  in  a  simple,  dainty  white  muslin  rather 
than  have  her  friend  Dorothy,  and  a  few  other  girls 
in  like  circumstances,  feel  that  they  were  conspicu- 
ous because  of  their  meagre  means.  Willa,  weeks 
before,  had  suggested  this  plan  to  her  father  and 
mother  who  heartily  approved,  and  whether  that 
had  influenced  them  in  their  decision  regarding 
"Beauty"  Willa  never  knew.  She  simply  knew  that 
she  was  supremely  happy,  that  her  heart  held  love 
for  everybody,  "good,  bad,  or  indifferent." 


DOUBLE  HONORS  173 

The  next  morning  nothing  would  satisfy  her  ex- 
cept that  Dorothy  should  have  a  farewell  ride  on 
Beauty.  At  first  Dorothy  shrank  from  it,  but  rath- 
er than  disappoint  her  friend  on  this  their  last  day 
together,  she  finally  let  Willa  lead  Beauty  to  the 
steps  where  she  mounted. 

"Ride  up  to  Amy's,  do  1"  cried  Willa,  encourag- 
ingly. 

The  words  were  scarcely  uttered  when  they 
heard  Amy's  birdlike  trill  and  saw  her  waving  her 
hand  at  them,  as  she  urged  Mollie  on.  At  this  time 
Amy  and  Dorothy  had  their  first  and  their  last 
ride  together;  for  Dorothy  that  afternoon  was  to 
leave  for  the  town  which  from  force  of  habit  she 
called  "home,"  but  the  thought  of  which  in  reality 
sent  a  shudder  through  her.  Her  school  days  were 
over,  and  thus  far,  she  had  dared  not  think  of  what 
might  be  ahead  of  her. 

The  two  girls  cantered  through  street  after  street 
of  Ripley. 

"Do  you  mind  going  down  Main  street?"  asked 
Amy.  "I  want  to  stop  at  the  bank  to  see  papa." 

"Anywhere,"  answered  Dorothy.  "I'm  sort  of 
a  passenger,  you  know." 

Beauty  and  Mollie  kept  side  by  side.  Every 
now  and  then  they  looked  toward  each  other  and 
made  believe  nip. 

"Look  at  them.  They'll  just  love  each  other  be- 
fore long.  See  if  they  don't,"  said  Amy,  as  she 
drew  up  to  the  bank,  dismounted,  and  ran  in  to  see 
her  father.  Her  errand  was  short.  In  less  than 


174  THE  PROBLEM 

three  minutes  she  was  back,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Bradford,  who  helped  his  daughter  mount,  shook 
hands  with  Dorothy,  and  complimented  her  on  her 
class  history  of  the  day  before. 

"Who  was  that  young  man  that  came  out  just 
as  you  went  in?"  asked  Dorothy,  when  she  and 
Amy  were  again  on  their  way. 

"Who?  What  did  he  look  like?"  asked  Amy, 
thoughtfully. 

"Tall,  dark,  clean — good  looking,"  answered 
Dorothy,  briefly. 

"O,  I  know, — Rob  Emmons.  He's  clerk  there. 
Why?" 

"Nothing,  only  I  thought  he  knew  Beauty,  he 
looked  at  him  so  hard,  and  seemed  surprised  to  see 
me  on  him." 

"Probably  he  was  surprised.  Father  says  he's 
Mr.  Holway's  right  hand  man.  He  has  had  him 
promoted  two  or  three  times  already,  and,"  here 
she  rode  a  little  closer  and  lowered  her  voice,  "don't 
you  say  a  word  to  Willa,  but  more  than  likely  he 
was  surprised  to  see  you  on  Beauty.  Willa  has 
never  mentioned  him  to  me,  but  different  times 
when  she  and  I  have  been  in  there  together,  and 
he  has  had  to  come  to  Mr.  Holway  for  something, 
the  two  have  looked  at  each  other  as  though — as 
though  they'd  like  to  be  friends,  if  there  wasn't  such 
a  difference  between  them,"  Amy  said.  "Don't  ever 
tell,  will  you?" 

"Tell?  No.  But  what  difference?"  asked  Dor- 
othy, innocently. 


DOUBLE  HONORS  175 

"O,  they're  awful  poor,"  said  Amy,  who  hap- 
pened to  think  at  that  moment  that  she  better  be 
careful  how  she  continued  on  that  subject,  because 
she  did  not  wish  to  cause  a  cloud  to  pass  over  Dor- 
othy's sky  on  this,  their  last  day  together. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
IN  THE  RACE 

FOR  years,  Mr.  Holway's  attorney,  in  fact, 
the  leading  attorney  of  the  place,  was  a 
colleague  of  his,  and  a  tried  and  trusted 
friend,  Col.  Charles  M.  Longley.     The 
lawyer,  not  having  a  son  of  his  own — although  he 
was  the   father  of  four  daughters — had,  a   few 
years  before,  taken  into  his  office  a  nephew,  Albert 
Hastings,  who  had,  much  to  Mr.  Longley's  regret, 
inherited  many  of  the  unpleasant  characteristics  of 
John  Hastings,  his  father.     Nevertheless,  he  was 
the  son  of  his  only  sister,  and  he  felt  he  owed  the 
lad  a  duty. 

In  his  uncle's  office,  Albert  Hastings  continued 
his  studies,  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  made  some 
friends,  and  also  some  enemies ;  for  the  young  man 
did  not  possess  the  genial  disposition  of  his  dis- 
tinguished uncle.  Instead,  he  was  noted  for  his 
sarcasm,  criticized  for  his  lack  of  tact,  and  for  his 
bump  of  conceit  which  seemed  over  developed ;  and 
endured  for  the  sake  of  his  uncle,  and  his  uncle's 
family.  Nevertheless,  the  fact  that  he  was  Col. 
Longley's  nephew,  with  the  prospect  of  some  day 
coming  into  an  established  law  practice,  opened  the 
doors  of  the  best  homes  in  Ripley  to  the  young 
man. 

Hastings'  chief  regret  with  this  new  situation 
176 


IN  THE  RACE  177 

was  that  his  uncle  should  not  have  been  childless  in- 
stead of  merely  "sonless."  Those  four  daughters 
stood  as  an  unsurmountable  obstacle  preventing  his 
ever  coming  into  his  uncle's  wealth,  even  if  he  did 
come  into  his  legal  practice.  Consequently,  it  was 
for  his  interest,  so  he  reasoned,  to  place  himself  at 
the  door  of  the  most  promising  of  the  eligible 
young  ladies  of  the  town. 

The  year  of  Willa's  graduation,  and  the  year 
following  that,  Albeit  Hastings  made  a  special 
effort  to  be  present  at  all  social  functions  where  he 
thought  she  might  be.  He  called.  He  sent  her 
flowers  at  Christmas,  and  in  many  other  ways 
showed  her  all  the  attention  he  dared. 

Because  of  his  close  confinement  to  business  he, 
too,  had  felt  the  need  of  outdoor  exercise,  and  had 
purposely  chosen  the  saddle.  He  was  a  fine  rider, 
and  no  one  knew  it  better  than  Albert  Hastings 
himself.  He  could  never  resist  the  temptation  to 
ride  his  best  before  any  plate  glass  windows  that  he 
might  be  passing;  nor  to  make  favorable  mental 
comments  regarding  himself  as  he  did  so. 

Willa,  however,  preferred  Amy  for  a  companion 
on  her  canters.  Never  had  she  accepted  an  invita- 
tion from  him  alone,  although  it  frequently  hap- 
pened, on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  that  their  paths 
crossed,  at  which  time  he  was  accustomed  to  riding 
with  her  to  her  own  gate.  Many  witnesses  of  this 
little  scene  expressed  their  surmises,  but  in  the  next 
breath  had  to  admit  that  Willa  was  Willa  wherever 
she  went,  and  certainly  administered  impartial 


178  THE  PROBLEM 

treatment  to  all. 

Had  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren  not  felt  that  they 
knew  the  girl  so  well,  they  might  have  been  some- 
what alarmed  at  the  marked  attention  shown  Willa 
by  Hastings.  As  it  was,  they  felt  confident  that 
without  a  word  on  their  part,  Willa  would  read 
him  and  read  him  aright. 

During  all  this  time,  no  one  watched  more 
anxiously  or  more  regretfully  than  Mr.  Holway's 
assistant,  Robert  Emmons.  No  one  was  more 
conscious  than  he  that  he  was  not  one  of  them,  that 
he  was  left  out,  so  to  speak,  from  all  the  higher  so- 
cial affairs,  and  this  knowledge  made  him  all  the 
more  confident  that  Willa  would  be  won.  His 
crippled  mother  watched  him  anxiously.  His  rosy 
cheeks  were  a  shade  paler.  His  laugh  was  not 
quite  so  merry.  His  eyes  grew  larger,  but  notwith- 
standing all  these  changes,  he  lost  none  of  his  gentle 
thoughtfulness  for  "little  mother,"  as  he  called  her, 
nor  did  he  neglect  either  his  work  or  his  studies 
which  he  had  constantly  pursued  since  leaving  the 
High  School  in  his  junior  year. 

"I'm  going  up  street,"  he  said,  soberly  and  yet 
tenderly,  one  cold  October  night. 

She  gave  him  one  long,  searching  look,  and  then 
said : 

"Very  well,  son.     You  are  a  man  now." 

"Thanks,  mother,"  answered  Robert,  warmly, 
as  he  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

In  a  moment  he  was  gone,  and  the  old  lady  said 
to  herself,  "There  is  something  on  my  boy's  mind. 


IN  THE  RACE  179 

I  can  see  it  every  day — have  seen  it  for  a  long 
time,"  and  her  brow  knitted,  thoughtfully.  Her 
mind  was  full  of  thoughts  concerning  her  boy,  and 
anxiety  lest  some  trouble  that  she  could  not  share 
was  weighing  on  him.  Her  mind  might  have  been 
somewhat  at  rest  had  she  only  known  that  in  less 
than  a  half-hour's  time,  he  had  rung  the  bell  at 
Mr.  Holway's  front  door. 

"Why,  Robert!  Come  in,  come  in,"  said  Mr. 
Holway  on  opening  the  door  and  seeing  who  his 
visitor  was. 

"Mother,  this  is  Robert.  You  have  heard  me 
speak  of  him,"  he  said  to  his  wife  by  way  of  intro- 
duction. 

"I'm  sure  I  have  known  'Robert'  for  a  long 
time,"  said  Mrs.  Holway,  kindly,  as  she  gave  the 
young  man's  hand  a  warm,  firm  grasp. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,  boy.  I'm  glad  to  see  you," 
Mr.  Holway  said,  when  his  wife's  greeting  was 
over,  but  Robert  did  not  sit.  He  stood  in  front  of 
Mr.  Holway,  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye,  and 
said:  "I've  come  on  what  to  me  is  important 
business.  Will  it  bother  either  of  you  if  I  see  you 
alone  for  a  few  minutes?" 

"No,  no.  Come  right  in  here.  Mother'll  ex- 
cuse us,  won't  you,  mother?"  he  asked. 

"Business  is  business,"  she  answered,  laughing. 
"Go  right  ahead." 

Mr.  Holway  led  Robert  into  an  adjoining  room 
and  shut  the  door.  When  both  were  seated,  the 
elderly  man  said,  in  his  kindly  tone  that  Robert  had 


i8o  THE  PROBLEM 

so  of  ten  heard,  "Well?" 

Robert  knew  what  that  one  word  meant,  and  he 
said  at  once : 

"Mr.  Holway,  next  to  my  mother,  I  look  on  you 
as  the  best  friend  I  have  in  all  the  world.  It  is 
for  that  reason  that  I  am  here." 

"Thanks,  Robert.  I  am  your  friend,  and  I  am 
glad  that  you  feel  it.  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"What  are  my  chances  for  the  future?"  asked 
Robert,  bluntly. 

"The  very  best,  if  you'll  stick  to  the  wheel," 
came  the  frank,  earnest  reply. 

"Good !  I'll  stick.  Another  question,"  the  young 
man  answered. 

"Go  ahead,"  urged  his  listener. 

"I'm  poor.  What  I  know  and  what  I  have 
done  has  come  from  hard  work.  I'm  not  in  the 
'swim'  as  the  fellows  say,"  continued  Robert. 

"And  some  of  the  'swimmers'  will  never  see 
land,  but  you  will,  see  if  you  don't,"  answered  Mr. 
Holway,  heartily. 

"But,  Mr.  Holway,  you  don't  understand.  I 
love  Willa  Warren,"  the  young  man  said. 

"Thunder!"  exclaimed  the  old  man.  "Excuse 
me,  Robert,  excuse  me.  I  was  just  surprised,  that 
was  all." 

"I  would  not  be  mean  enough  to  seek  a  further 
acquaintanceship  with  her,  or  even  to  try  to  win  her 
love,  unless  you  and  her  people  were  willing.  I 
have  come  to  you  first,  because  I  know  you  best." 

The  young  man  paused,  still  looking  straight  in- 


IN  THE  RACE  181 

to  the  eyes  of  the  other.  "In  case  it  is  possible  for 
me  to  win  her  love,  would  you  be  willing?''  he  con- 
tinued, eagerly,  almost  madly,  putting  emphasis  on 
every  word. 

"Yes,"  came  in  the  calm,  even  tone  of  Mr.  Hoi- 
way. 

"Thanks,  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Robert,  rising. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,  wait.  One  thing  I  would 
suggest  or  advise." 

"Yes?"  said  Robert,  quiringly. 

"That  you  wait  until  after  her  twenty-first  birth- 
day," added  Mr.  Holway. 

Robert  buried  his  face  in  his  two  hands.  After 
that  he  did  not  move  a  muscle  until  the  other's  voice 
brought  him  to  himself  by  saying : 

"I  mention  this  because  I  know  it  is  what  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Warren  would  say  if  either  of  us  were  to 
ask  them." 

"But  Hastings,"  said  Robert,  with  a  curl  of  his 
lip  and  fire  in  his  eyes. 

"Time  will  tell,  of  course.  I  will  just  let  you 
know  this  much,  though,  that  no  man  shall  have 
Willa's  promise  to  marry  him  until  after  she  is 
twenty-one.  Isn't  that  enough?" 

"But — supposing — she — learns  to — to  like  him? 
He's— he's— " 

Robert  was  going  to  add,  "He's  mean  enough 
for  anything,"  but  checked  himself  and  added, 
boldly,  "I  love  her  so,  Mr.  Holway." 

Again  Robert  rose  to  go,  and  this  time  Mr.  Hol- 
way rose,  too. 


1 82  THE  PROBLEM 

"You've  shown  yourself  one  man  in  a  hundred, 
Robert;  yes,  in  a  thousand,  I  guess.  You've 
shown  an  honor  that  some  fellows  don't  have  only 
.in  their  dictionary,"  said  the  old  man,  laying  a 
hand  on  each  of  Robert's  shoulders  and  looking 
straight  into  his  young,  frank,  manly  face.  "Good 
luck  to  you,  boy.  I'm  with  you,"  he  added,  heart- 
ily, shaking  the  young  man's  hand. 

"I  am  glad  I  trusted  you.  You  have  done  me 
good,"  answered  Robert,  returning  the  friendly 
grip. 

Thus  the  two  parted,  and  although  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Warren  were  told  of  the  interview,  no  word  was 
mentioned  to  Willa;  in  fact,  the  four  purposely 
avoided  mentioning  the  name  of  Robert  Emmons. 
They  chose  to  let  common  sense  and  love  work 
out  their  own  courses. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

CHRISTMAS  AT  GRANDPA'S 

'  "W"   FEEL  as  though  we  ought  to  go,  Henry," 

said  Emily,  after  reading  grandpa's  letter. 

"You  know  the  last  time  he  was  here,  how 

M    changed    he    seemed,    and    how    he    had 

failed." 

"I  know,"  answered  her  husband,  "but  he  is  not 
so  feeble  that  he  can't  travel,  and  some  of  the  cases 
here  need  me  more  than  usual." 

"Well,  it  isn't  as  though  there  was  no  other  doc- 
tor in  the  place,  Henry.  If  the  worst  comes,  your 
patients  can  go  to  them,  as  theirs  have  come  to  you 
a  lot  of  times,"  pleaded  Emily  in  Grandpa  Liver- 
more's  behalf,  feeling  a  strange  sympathy  for  the 
old  man  who  positively  refused  this  year  to  leave 
the  old  place  as  the  holiday  season  approached. 

"All  right.  Tell  him  we'll  come,"  he  answered. 
"I  never  could  stay  away  at  Christmas  when  moth- 
er was  alive,  but  it  is  all  so  different  now.  It  isn't 
much  fun  for  me,  but  I  mustn't  think  of  myself. 
It  is  father,  poor  father!"  he  added,  with  new 
feeling. 

Emily  wrote.  The  three  went.  Stanley  seemed 
the  only  one  who  felt  the  genuine  Christmas  spirit. 
Somehow  his  father  and  mother  felt  more  as 
though  they  were  attending  a  funeral,  so  changed 
was  the  old  man.  No  one  but  Stanley  seemed  able 

183 


1 84  THE  PROBLEM 

to  bring  him  to  himself  for  brief  periods  at  a  time. 
With  the  boy,  however,  he  would  laugh  his  own 
old-fashioned  laugh,  would  tell  stories  of  past 
Christmas  scenes  and  experiences,  but  as  soon  as 
Stanley  left  him  he  seemed  like  one  dreaming;  he 
would  walk  around  from  room  to  room  with  eyes 
so  blank  that  to  Henry  and  Emily  it  seemed  as 
though  they  saw  nothing  except  the  light  to  guide 
him  lest  he  stumble  against  the  various  pieces  of 
old-fashioned  furniture.  His  two  old  time  servants 
understood  him,  his  wishes,  and  his  seemingly 
freakish  fancies.  To  Henry,  it  was  the  saddest 
Christmas  he  had  ever  known.  He  and  his  wife 
both  wondered  what  they  would  ever  do  with  Stan- 
ley through  these  days,  which  seemed  to  bring  only 
a  phantom  of  Christmas  cheer,  were  it  not  for  the 
two  children  of  Henry's  boyhood  friend,  who  lived 
in  the  very  next  house.  Charlie  and  Marion  had 
been  ready  with  a  hearty  welcome  for  Stanley, 
about  whom  old  Mr.  Livermore  had  so  often  told 
them.  They  came  for  him  to  accompany  them  to 
the  church  to  see  the  decorations,  and  the  tree  bear- 
ing the  load  that  would  that  evening  keep  Santa 
Claus  busy.  During  his  hour's  absence,  Emily 
noticed  that  grandpa  had  ceased  pacing  his  sitting- 
room,  and  wondered  if  he  had  lain  down  for  his 
afternoon  nap.  She  continued  cracking  nuts,  pre- 
paratory to  to-morrow's  feast,  until  Henry  came  in 
from  making  a  few  neighborly  calls. 

"Where's  the  boy?"  he  asked,  looking  around. 

"Off  to  the  church  with  Charlie  and  Marion. 


CHRISTMAS  AT  GRANDPA'S      185 

They  came  for  him  to  go  to  see  the  tree  and  see 
them  decorate.  Their  mother  has  something  to  do 
with  it,  I  guess,"  answered  Emily. 

"Where's  father?"  he  again  asked,  sitting  down 
near  her  and  taking  some  of  the  nuts  to  crack. 

"Asleep,  I  think.  He  walked  the  floor  a  long 
time  and  then  he  must  have  lain  down.  Guess  I 
better  see,"  she  said,  rising  a  little  anxiously,  and 
going  toward  the  sitting-room. 

"He  seems  to  sleep  a  lot,"  was  Henry's  mental 
comment. 

Emily  tiptoed  along,  making  no  sound  on  the 
old  worn  and  faded  velvet  carpet.  At  the  door  she 
paused,  looked  at  the  wasted  form  of  the  old  man, 
who  was  partially  covered  with  a  quilt  made  of  fine 
wool  pieces,  in  the  log-cabin  fashion,  a  Christmas 
present  a  few  years  before  from  his  faithful  old 
housekeeper.  His  hair  was  snow  white;  in  fact, 
it  had  been  almost  white  when  Emily  first  saw  him. 
Now  the  work  of  time  was  finished  and  no  traces 
of  springtide  showed  themselves  in  this  field  of 
shining,  snowy  softness.  His  face  was  cleanly  shav- 
en, and  the  high  linen  collar  about  his  wrinkled 
throat  was  of  pearly  whiteness.  The  bright,  pieced 
quilt  rose  and  fell  regularly,  and  Emily  knew  at 
once  that  its  owner  was  enjoying  a  sweet,  childlike 
sleep.  As  she  gazed,  she  noticed  that,  clasped  with 
the  thumb  and  finger  of  each  hand,  both  of  which 
were  resting  over  his  chest,  was  a  small  photo- 
graph. Owing  to  the  position,  she  could  not  see 
the  face,  but  both  the  coloring  and  edges  looked 


1 86  THE  PROBLEM 

old.  Not  daring  to  go  nearer  for  fear  of  disturb- 
ing him,  she  tiptoed  back  to  Henry  and  sat  down 
on  his  knee. 

"Sleep?"  he  asked,  putting  his  arm  around  her. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  and  then  she  told  him  of 
the  photograph. 

"Aunt  Emily,  likely.    Poor  father !" 

"He  has  certainly  paid  dearly  for  what  he  did, 
hasn't  he?"  she  asked. 

"Dearly?  It's  just  haunted  him  all  these  years. 
I've  been  afraid  it  would  effect  him  like  this,"  he 
answered. 

"I  pity  him,  but  I  do  not  blame  her,"  she  said. 
"Do  you  suppose  either  of  us  would  have  given 
the  other  up  for  the  sake  of  money?"  she  asked, 
scornfully. 

"Not  much,  would  we?"  replied  Henry,  play- 
fully raising  one  of  her  hands  to  his  face  and  then 
kissing  it. 

"Money  is  good,  but  not  so  good  as  love,  is  it?" 
she  asked  soberly. 

"Not  so  good  as  love,  Em,"  Henry  answered, 
tenderly,  just  as  Stanley  was  heard  on  the  piazza, 
stamping  the  snow  from  his  overshoes,  and  leg- 
gings that  came  high  above  his  knees. 

"Sh !  Grandpa's  asleep,"  cautioned  his  mother, 
as  he  entered,  but  it  was  too  late.  Grandpa  heard 
the,  "O,  come,  the  whole  of  us,  grandpa  and  every- 
body. They've  got  a  busting  big  tree,  and  Charlie 
and  Marion  both  say  pieces.  It's  seven  o'clock. 
M's.  Chandler  said  so,"  which  came  from  Stanley 


CHRISTMAS  AT  GRANDPA'S      187 

in  a  half  shout  and  almost  in  one  breath  had 
aroused  grandpa,  who  in  a  few  minutes  came 
strolling  out,  glad  to  see  the  little  love  scene  that 
had  been  taking  place  between  his  son  and  daugh- 
ter, and  hoping  it  had  kept  them  from  seeing  the 
weakness  he  had  shown  just  before  losing  himself 
in  sleep. 

"Concert,  Stanley?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile,  look- 
ing at  his  earnest,  wide  awake  namesake. 

"Yes,  a  big  concert,  an'  Santa  Claus,  an'  every- 
thing. They  want  us  all  to  come,  Grandpa'll  go 
with  me,  won't  you,  grandpa?"  he  asked,  leaning 
up  against  the  old  man  wistfully. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME 

AS  Willa  drove  in  the  yard,  Mrs.  Warren 
stepped  out,  calling,  "Don't  get  out, 
Willa.  Can't  you  take  these  samples 
and  drive  down  to  Fowlers  for  more 
silk?" 

"How  many  skeins?"  asked  Willa,  reaching  for 
the  samples. 

"Three  of  the  pink  and  two  green,"  answered 
her  mother. 

"All  right,"  said  Willa,  tucking  the  delicate 
threads  inside  her  purse.  She  turned  Beauty 
around,  for  he  was  accustomed  to  either  carriage 
or  saddle,  and  in  less"  than  five  minutes  was  at  the 
place  in  question. 

Inside  the  store,  she  noticed  a  commotion  at  her 
right  and  halted.  Willa  looked,  and  then  turned 
to  a  young  lady  standing  near,  saying,  "What  is  it? 
Do  you  know?"  her  tone  implying  real  concern  in 
the  matter. 

"An  old  lady  fainted,  overcome  by  the  heat,  I 
guess.  Isn't  it  an  awful  day?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  I  don't  know.  I  thought  it  was  beautiful. 
Has  she  come  to?"  asked  Willa,  thoughtfully. 

"Yes.  She  didn't  get  'clear  off,'  as  we  say,  but 
she  would  have  if  Georgie  hadn't  gotten  water  for 
her,  and  someone  else  ran  for  brandy." 

188 


IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME          189 

"Do  you  know  who  she  is?"  asked  Willa. 

"No,  I  don't.  I  never  saw  her  before.  She  is 
all  drawn  out  of  shape  with  rheumatism,  I  guess." 

"O!"  exclaimed  Willa,  sympathetically.  "I  won- 
der if  I  can't  take  her  home  in  my  carriage.  Have 
the  man  ask  her,  won't  you?" 

The  girl  did  as  requested,  and  in  a  few  minutes, 
as  soon  as  Willa  had  attended  to  her  mother's  er- 
rand, the  old  lady  was  helped  into  the  carriage  and 
driven  home,  a  distance  of  about  two  miles,  to  a 
humble  little  cottage,  partially  hidden  by  climbing 
vines,  where  Mrs.  Emmons  had  directed  her;  for 
her  companion  was  none  other  than  the  mother  of 
Robert  Emmons,  Mr.  Holway's  assistant.  When 
they  had  gotten  into  the  carriage  the  clerk  had 
merely  said  to  Willa,  "Lakeville  way.  She'll  tell 
you  the  house,"  and  Willa  thanked  him.  The 
woman  had  seemed  so  weak  that  Willa  drove  slow- 
ly, and  said  but  little.  It  was  not  until  they  were 
nearly  to  the  house  that  she  learned  the  other's 
name,  and  when  she  did,  she  said  frankly,  "I  am 
Willa  Warren.  You  probably  know  my  father. 
Everybody  knows  him." 

"Yes,  and  your  grandfather,  too,"  answered  the 
other. 

"Grandpa  Holway?  You  know  him?"  asked 
Willa,  with  delight. 

"By  name  and  reputation,  yes.  My  son  thinks 
there  never  was  such  a  man,"  the  woman  answered. 

"Your  son  ?  You  mean  that  Robert  Emmons  is 
your  son?"  asked  Willa,  with  interest. 


190  THE  PROBLEM 

"Robert  Emmons  is  my  son,"  the  old  lady  an- 
swered, proudly,  as  Willa  helped  her  down  over 
the  step  and  into  the  house. 

"You  feel  better  now,  don't  you?"  said  Willa, 
untying  the  ribbon  bow  which  held  an  old-fashioned 
black  summer  cape  to  the  woman's  shoulders,  and 
removed  the  bonnet  which  was  likewise  old- 
fashioned,  and  very,  very  small,  although  both  were 
neatly  made,  and  showed  that  they  had  been  well 
cared  for. 

"I  am  so  glad  I  happened  there,"  said  Willa. 
"Did  you  get  your  errands  done?" 

"No,  I  didn't.  I  wanted  some  print  for  a  new 
dress,  and  some  cloth  and  trimming  for  a  night- 
gown. Robert  gave  me  five  dollars  last  night  and 
told  me  to  spend  it  for  myself,  but  I  shan't — not 
the  whole  of  it,"  the  little  woman  answered. 

"If  I  only  knew  the  kind  you  wanted  I  could 
get  them  for  you.  Can't  you  tell  me?  Give  me 
some  idea,  can't  you,  so  I  can  try?"  suggested 
Willa. 

"Bless  you,  dear.  I've  bothered  you  enough, 
now.  I'll  try  again  some  day,  only — I  did  want  a 
best  gown,  and  the  wrappers  I  have  now  are  so 
faded,"  she  said. 

"What  color  and  what  sized  figure  were  you 
planning  on  for  the  print?"  asked  Willa,  earnestly. 

Both  were  seated  now,  the  old  lady  in  a  chair, 
and  Willa  on  the  end  of  the  sofa  near  her. 

"Black  and  white,  dear,  a  fine  polka  dot,  if  I  can 
get  it,  if  not  just  a  little  spray  of  something,"  said 


IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME  191 

Mrs.  Emmons. 

"And  the  cotton?"  asked  Willa. 

"Fine,  bleached,  and  some  hamburg." 

"How  wide?" 

"About  so  wide,"  the  old  lady  answered,  meas- 
uring on  her  finger. 

"I  see,"  said  Willa.  "Now  I  know  I  could  get 
them  all  right  andwould  just  love  to  if  you  will  only 
let  me  try.  I  would  bring  them  right  out  to  you, 
to-morrow." 

"You  must  be  like  your  grandfather,  dear,"  re- 
plied the  little  woman.  "Robert  says  he  is  always 
doing  something  for  somebody." 

"If  you  care  to  trust  my  judgment  on  the  quality, 
Mrs.  Emmons,  and  will  tell  me  how  much  of  every- 
thing, I  will  write  them  down,"  said  Willa,  taking 
from  her  bag  a  slip  of  paper  and  a  pencil. 

"Ten  yards  of  print,  black  and  white,  you  re- 
member." 

"Ten  yards,  yes,"  repeated  Willa,  writing. 

"Black  thread,  number  seventy,"  continued  the 
old  lady,  and  Willa  again  wrote. 

"Five  yards  of  fine,  bleached  cotton,"  the  other 
added. 

Willa  repeated  this,  looking  at  the  paper  and 
writing. 

"Two  yards  of  hamburg.  That's  all — no — 
thread,  white,  number  eighty,"  Mrs.  Emmons  con- 
tinued. "That's  all,"  she  again  added,  thought- 
fully. 

"Now,  just  see  if  I  have  it  right,"  said  Willa, 


1 92  THE  PROBLEM 

reading  off  her  list  of  errands. 

"That's  right,"  said  her  companion,  gratefully. 
"Now,  you  take  my  five  dollars,  and  you  can  bring 
me  the  change." 

"No,  no,  Mrs.  Emmons.  I  do  not  know  yet  how 
much  they  will  be.  I'll  just  get  them,  and  then  you 
can  pay  me  when  I  bring  them.  I'll  come,  to-mor- 
row," said  Willa,  rising. 

The  old  lady,  wholly  unconscious  that  the  young 
woman  before  her  was  the  one  who  for  the  past 
three  years  had  disturbed  her  son's  peace  of  mind, 
said: 

"You  are  a  dear  girl.  I  don't  wonder  people 
love  you." 

"Do  they?"  asked  Willa,  innocently.  "Well,  I 
love  them.  Everybody  is  always  so  kind  to  me 
that  I  have  to  love  them,"  she  added,  taking  the 
old  lady's  extended  hand. 

"It  is  you,  dear,  who  is  kind.  How  can  I  ever 
thank  you?"  she  asked. 

"Don't  try,"  said  Willa.  "I  feel  like  thanking 
you  for  letting  me  come.  I  think  this  is  just  a 
dear  old  place.  I  have  passed  it  a  lot  of  times,  but 
I  did  not  know  that  you  lived  here,  or  rather,  that 
Robert  lived  here.  I  have  seen  him  at  the  bank, 
you  know,"  she  added,  frankly. 

"Robert  is  a  good  lad,  dear,  a  good  lad,"  his 
mother  said,  tenderly. 

"And  you  are  his  mother,"  slowly  answered  Wil- 
la, stooping  over  to  leave  a  kiss  on  the  old  lady's 
forehead. 


IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME          193 

The  tone  caused  the  little  woman  to  look  up  in 
time  to  catch  on  Willa's  face  an  expression  of  in- 
tense loyal  womanhood,  coupled  with  the  heartiest 
sympathy: 

"You  are  coming  again?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"To-morrow,"  answered  Willa,  dropping  the 
two  crippled  hands.  In  another  minute  she  was 
gone.  The  old  lady  watched  her  into  the  carriage, 
and  answered  the  cheery  waving  of  the  hand  that 

came  from  Willa. 
******** 

And  Willa  did  go  again,  not  once,  but  many, 
many  times.  A  fondness  grew  up  between  the  two. 
Willa  made  a  bright  spot  on  the  horizon  of  the  old 
lady's  life,  and  she  was  never  able  to  leave  the  vine- 
covered  cottage  without  giving  her  promise  to  re- 
turn in  the  near  future.  Robert  grew  accustomed 
to  returning  and  finding  a  bunch  of  choice  roses  or 
sweetpeas  from  Dr.  Warren's  garden  adorning  his 
mother's  little  table.  Weeks  and  months  passed. 
Willa  was  never  there  when  he  returned  from  the 
bank.  He  heard  of  her  visit,  however,  and  he  saw 
the  tonic  like  effect  her  presence  had  on  his  mother, 
and  wished,  how  he  wished,  that  he  might  be 
blessed  in  a  similar  way;  but  he  remembered  his 
promise  to  Mr.  Holway,  and  he  determined  to 
keep  it  at  any  cost. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

CONTENTMENT 

LISTEN  to  this,  will  you?"  said  Emily, 
as  soon  as  Henry  entered  the  room  one 
cold  afternoon  in  November. 
"What  now?"  he  asked,  adding  a  few 
sticks  of  dry  hard  wood  to  the  open  fire  before 
them. 

"From  Hallie,"  she  answered,  putting  her  sew- 
ing down,  and  drawing  from  its  envelope  the  let- 
ter just  received. 

"DEAREST  EM,  HENRY,  AND  STANLEY: 

"We  have  all  been  over  to  Uncle  Dick's  to-day, 
and  I  promised  him  that  I  would  write  you  before 
I  went  to  bed  to-night,  so  here  I  am  hard  at  it. 

"We  all  agreed  that  it  is  time  and  past  time  for 
you  to  visit  us.  Mabel  has  visited  you,  and  I  have 
visited  you,  and  we  think  now  it  is  your  turn.  If 
you  come,  you  can  see  us  all.  You  know  Uncle 
Dick  will  never  go  East  again,  but  he  does  want  to 
see  you.  Here  is  his  check  for  $100  to  help  toward 
the  trip,  and  he  says  he  won't  listen  to  any  'no'  on 
your  part.  We  are  all  so  anxious  for  the  three  of 
you  to  come.  However,  if  it  is  absolutely  impos- 
sible for  Henry  to  leave  for  so  long,  we  think  you 
and  Stanley  ought  to  come  anyway.  We  all  got  so 
enthusiastic  talking  about  it  that  we  almost  had  you 

194 


CONTENTMENT  195 

here.  Think  of  it!  Richard  is  thirteen,  and  you 
haven't  seen  him  yet.  It's  just  a  shame. 

"We  are  all  well,  as  you  may  know.  I  am  simply 
tired  from  my  day's  trip,  so  won't  write  more. 

"Let  us  know  just  as  soon  as  you  can.  We  want 
you  here  for  Christmas,  sure,  and  we  will  have 
Uncle  Dick's  folks  over.  I  shall  have  two  weeks' 
vacation  then,  anyway. 

"Lots  of  love, 

"HALLIE." 

tl 

Henry,  during  the  reading,  had  been  seated  in 

his  big  arm  chair,  with  his  feet  resting  on  the  edge 
of  an  old-fashioned  settle  which  had  belonged  to 
Emily's  mother.  He  did  not  speak  until  after  the 
letter  had  been  replaced  in  the  envelope,  and  then 
he  folded  his  hands  behind  his  head,  and  looking 
straight  at  her,  said : 

"Do  you  want  to  go,  Em?" 

"You  know  I  would  like  to,"  she  answered,  "but, 
under  the  conditions,  I  would  be  happier  at  home, 
Henry." 

"You  haven't  told  them?"  he  asked. 

"Not  a  word,"  said  Emily. 

He  took  his  hands  down,  again  fixed  the  fire, 
and  then  drew  his  chair  up  close  to  hers. 

"I  want  you  to  please  yourself,  Emily.  You 
know  all  the  conditions.  Of  course,  I  cannot  go 
on  father's  account,  to  say  nothing  of  my  patients. 
When  paresis  gets  hold  of  a  man  of  his  age,  one 
doesn't  know  how  to  plan.  However,  I  am  near 


t96  THE  PROBLEM 

enough  now  so  that  I  could  get  there  in  a  few  hours 
if  needed.  But,  about  you  and  Stanley,  it  is  just 
as  you  say." 

"I  must  write  them,  Henry.  I  can't  do  it.  I  know 
Mabel  came,  but  it  was  scarcely  a  parallel  case,  af- 
ter all.  Home  is  home,  and  I  will  wait  until — un- 
til—" 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  but  her  listener 
understood,  and  for  a  full  half  hour  he  kept  her 
hand  in  his  as  they  talked  over  the  present  problem, 
and  made  plans  for  the  future, — talked  quiet- 
ly, gently,  like  the  two  lovers  they  were,  until  a  tap 
came  to  the  door,  and  Mary,  the  maid,  told  the 
Doctor  that  he  was  wanted.  Their  hands  separat- 
ed, and  he  jumped  up. 

"Just  one,"  said  Emily. 

He  knew  what  she  meant,  and  leaned  over  to 
leave  a  kiss  on  her  lips. 

Emily  continued  her  sewing.  Her  face  wore  a 
smile  of  contentment,  as  she  thought  of  the  pres- 
ent, the  future  and  the  love  that  was  hers.  Sud- 
denly, she  heard  the  sound  of  Stanley's  footsteps, 
and  his  voice  saying: 

"Papa  home?" 

"No,  just  gone,"  was  Mary's  brief  reply,  and  in 
another  moment  he  was  in  the  sitting-room,  fol- 
lowed by  Nip,  a  genuine  Boston  terrier,  now  tak- 
ing the  place  of  the  old  Rover  that  had  been  killed 
the  year  before. 

Stanley  had  scarcely  greeted  his  mother,  when 
his  eyes  lighted  on  the  check  from  Uncle  Dick, 


CONTENTMENT  197 

which  had  been  omitted  from  the  envelope  when 
the  letter  was  replaced. 

"What  did  he  send  it  for,  mama?"  he  asked, 
looking  at  it  carefully. 

On  being  told,  he  slapped  his  hands  on  his  knees 
and  listened  eagerly. 

"We'll  go,  won't  we,  mama?"  he  asked. 

"Sometime,  dear,  not  just  now." 

"Why,  mama?"  he  asked,  his  countenance 
drooping. 

"There  are  several  reasons,  Stanley.  For  one 
thing,  you  know  grandpa  is  not  well,  and  if  any- 
thing should  happen  to  him,  papa  ought  to  be  here, 
hadn't  he?"  she  answered. 

"Y-e-s,"  the  boy  replied,  slowly;  for  he  still 
loved  Grandpa  Livermore  next  to  his  father  and 
mother.  He  did  not  know  that  the  letter  contained 
a  suggestion  that,  in  case  his  father  could  not  go 
he  and  his  mother  might  go  alone,  and  she  did  not 
tell  him. 

"What  will  you  buy  with  this?"  he  asked,  again 
turning  the  check  over  and  reading  it  carefully. 

"Why,  I  won't  buy  anything  with  it.  Mama'll 
return  it  to  Uncle  Dick  when  she  writes  to  thank 
him,"  she  answered. 

"Gee!  I  think  that's  awful!  Wouldn't  it  be 
fun,  though?  When  can  we  go,  mama?"  he  asked 
all  in  one  breath. 

"What  did  you  study  to-day?"  asked  his  mother, 
soberly. 

"O,  a  lot  of  things,"  answered  Stanley,  knowing 


198  THE  PROBLEM 

at  once  what  his  mother  meant. 

"Any  grammar?"  she  asked. 

UA  little,"  Stanley  replied,  trying  to  hide  his 
rather  subdued  smile  by  going  up  and  giving  his 
mother  her  full  share  of  hugs  and  kisses. 

"You  ought  to  write  to  grandpa  to-night,  Stan- 
ley, did  you  know  it?"  she  asked. 

"Do  you  suppose  he  will  come  down  here  this 
Christmas?"  he  asked,  hopefully. 

"I  don't  know,  but  you  can  write  and  tell  him 
that  papa  will  go  for  him  and  take  him  home  if 
he  will." 

"O,  couldn't  I  go,  too?"  teased  Stanley. 

"Just  as  papa  says  about  that,"  she  answered. 

"Gracious,  I'm  hungry.  Isn't  it  supper  time?" 
he  asked.  "I've  been  hungry  for  three  hours/'  he 
added. 

"Papa'll  be  back  in  a  little  while,"  answered  his 
mother.  "He  only  went  over  to  Thaxters." 

"Have  a  game  of  pachisi,  mama?"  again  asked 
Stanley,  forgetting  in  the  thought  of  that  all  about 
his  stomach  and  supper,  and  starting  for  the  board 
without  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"Mama,  if  I  do  write  to  grandpa,  can  I  use  some 
of  your  nice  paper?  Please,  mama?"  he  urged. 

"That  would  depend  on  how  hard  my  boy  would 
try  to  write  well,  and  to  show  grandpa  how  much 
he  has  improved,"  she  replied. 

"O,  mama !  Teacher  said  to-day  that  we've  all 
got  to  write  bertical  after  this — that  the  way  you 
and  papa  and  grandpa  an'  everybody  writes  is  old- 


CONTENTMENT  199 

fashioned,  an'  we've  all  got  to  do  it  bertical  now 
an'—" 

"Vertical,  Stanley,"  corrected  his  mother. 

"Yes,  she  says  everything  is  going  to  be  bertical, 
right  up  and  down  like  this,"  said  Stanley,  going 
through  gymnastics  with  his  body  and  arm  to  dem- 
onstrate. 

"V,  v,  Stanley,  vertical,"  his  mother  again  sug- 
gested. 

"Well,  the  teacher  said  'bertical,'  "  insisted  Stan- 
ley, "I  know  she  did,  'cause  I  punched  Bertie  Gor- 
don in  the  back,  and  said,  'You're  kind,  Bertie,  an' 
teacher,  she — " 

Stanley  began  to  flounder  for  words,  and  again 
turned  his  attention  to  pachisi,  but  his  mother  was 
much  more  interested  just  then  in  the  previous  re- 
mark. 

"She  what?"  His  mother  asked,  and  Stanley  at 
once  wished  he  had  not  ventured  so  far. 

"Not  much.  She  said  that  we  had  all  got  to 
learn  'bertical,'  an', — can't  we  play,  now,  mama?" 

"Did  she  say  anything  to  you  when  you  whis- 
pered to  Bertie?"  Mrs.  Livermore  asked. 

"  'Twan't  whispering,  mama.  I  just  said,  'You're 
kind,  Bertie,  'cause  'twas  kind  o'  like  his  name,  you 
know,  an' — " 

"But  you  meant  him  to  hear,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  just  for  fun,  you  know,  but — " 

"But  it  wasn't  fun,  was  it?  What  did  the  teach- 
er do?" 

"She — she — can't  we  play  now,  mama?" 


loo  THE  PROBLEM 

"Not  now.    What  did  she  do  ?" 

Stanley's  face  commenced  to  go  through  contor- 
tions, showing  his  mother  that  he  was  everything 
but  comfortable.  However,  the  boy  had  never  in 
his  life  told  his  mother  a  lie,  and  he  could  not, 
would  not  now.  The  truth  came  hard,  but  it  was 
easier  than  to  see  the  present  expression  on  his 
mother's  face.  With  a  bang  he  thrust  the  board 
aside,  and  ran  to  her,  putting  his  arms  around  her 
neck,  and  kissing  her  before  he  could  say: 

"She  said  'twas  whispering,  and  made  me  lose 
recess,  and — 'twasn't  loud,  mama,"  he  added. 

"But  you  disobeyed  her,  and  forgot — what, 
Stanley?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"Forgot  what?"  she  again  asked. 

"That  I  was  a  gentleman,"  he  answered,  "but 
I  won't  forget  again,  mama." 

His  look  and  tone  were  enough  to  make  his 
mother  respond  to  his  embrace,  and  thus  they  were 
when  Henry's  footsteps  were  heard  outside. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  DISCUSSION 

ONE  Saturday  morning  Amy  Bradford 
was  going  to  the  adjoining  town  to 
spend  Sunday  with  her  uncle's  family, 
and  she  patiently  coaxed  Willa  to  ac- 
company her  on  the  ride.  It  was  a  glorious  day 
in  the  latter  part  of  May.  Mrs.  Warren  herself 
joined  with  Amy  in  trying  to  persuade  the  girl  to 
go.  Willa  had  of  late  stayed  in  more  than  usual, 
because  for  weeks  Mrs.  Warren  had  neither  felt 
nor  acted  like  her  usual  self.  Both  her  husband 
and  Willa  had  been  very  much  concerned  over  her, 
but  she  herself  insisted  that  she  was  merely  tired. 
The  Doctor,  however,  feared  for  her  nerves.  Wil- 
la and  Jennie,  the  maid,  each  took  extra  care  to  re- 
lieve her;  nevertheless  each  day  seemed  to  make 
her  thinner,  weaker,  and  more  nervous. 

On  this  particular  morning,  however,  Willa,  in 
order  to  please  her  mother,  mounted  Beauty  and 
rode  away  by  the  side  of  Amy,  having  left  her 
mother  with  the  promise  to  be  home  by  supper 
time.  The  ride  was  taken,  and  dinner  accordingly 
enjoyed  at  their  destination.  At  three  o'clock, 
Willa  started  for  home,  thanking  them  all  for  the 
good  time  given  her. 

"Will  see  you  Monday,"  called  Amy  as  she  gave 
Willa  a  cheerful  wave  of  the  hand  in  parting. 

201 


202  THE  PROBLEM 

It  was  a  warm  afternoon  for  May.  The  wind 
was  from  behind,  and  before  long  Willa  noticed 
that  Beauty  was  sweating  beneath  his  saddle. 

"Poor  Beauty!  Warm  day,  isn't  it?"  she  said, 
patting  the  side  of  his  neck  with  one  hand,  and 
bringing  him  to  a  walk.  The  animal  immediately 
swung  his  head  up  and  down  and  gave  a  little 
snort,  as  though  answering  his  mistress  in  the  af- 
firmative and  glad  for  her  consideration.  Scarcely 
two  miles  had  been  covered,  but  it  was  early,  and 
Willa  did  not  see  the  need  of  hurrying. 

"I  wish,  Beauty,  we  knew  what  ailed  mama," 
she  said  aloud. 

Another  slight  swing  of  his  head  made  her  feel 
that  she  was  answered,  that  Beauty  entered  into 
her  anxiety  for  her  mother.  The  two  were  climb- 
ing the  first  steep  hill  that  had  come  in  their  way 
since  leaving  Amy,  when,  on  a  level  stretch  behind, 
Willa  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs. 

Goodness !  I  hope  it  isn't, — but,  of  course  it  isn't. 
I  won't  look  around,  anyway,"  she  said  to  herself. 

"This  is  a  pleasure,"  said  Albert  Hastings,  as 
his  horse  came  abreast  of  Beauty. 

"O,  Mr.  Hastings!  How  do  you  do?"  asked 
Willa,  as  though  the  thought  that  the  ap- 
proaching party  might  be  he  had  never  entered  her 
mind. 

"Mr.  Hastings  is  very  well,  but  he  is  much  more 
6oncerned  to  know  how  Miss  Warren  is  and  how 
she  happens  to  be  so  far  from  her  home  alone  on 
this  glorious  day,"  he  answered,  with  his  blandest 


THE  DISCUSSION  203 

smile. 

Willa  was  angry,  not  slightly  so,  but  angry  to 
the  very  tips  of  her  fingers.  She  had  suddenly  re- 
membered Amy's  having  mentioned  seeing  one 
of  the  Misses  Longley,  Hastings's  cousin,  the 
evening  before,  and  it  was  more  than  likely  that 
any  pretense  of  business  which  he  might  offer  as 
an  excuse  for  his  being  there  at  that  hour  would 
be  utterly  false.  Willa  had  seen  him  before  when 
she  had  longed  for  about  five  minutes  to  be  a  man ; 
longed  to  see  someone  take  the  fellow  by  the  col- 
lar of  his  ever  immaculate,  well  fitting  coat  and 
shake  him  in  a  way  to  bring  him  to  his  senses,  if 
he  had  any — in  a  way  to  take  some  of  the  conceit 
out  of  him — in  a  way  to  make  him  see  just  how  lit- 
tle a  man  she  really  considered  him.  In  this  mood, 
Willa  looked  at  him  now,  straight  in  the  eye,  and 
said  : 

"I  had  business  this  way,  Mr.  Hastings.  I  came 
over  the  road  early  this  morning." 

"Ah,  indeed !  Well,  I  had  planned  on  spending 
this  afternoon  at  the  golf  links,  but  suddenly 
learned  of  a  business  matter  in  this  direction  that 
needed  my  immediate  attention,  and  business  must 
come  before  pleasure.  You  will  admit  that,  Miss 
Warren?" 

"The  right  kind  of  business,  yes,"  answered 
Willa. 

Hastings  for  a  moment  winced  under  the  tone, 
and  then  continued: 

"Last  Saturday  was  the  opening  game,  and  Sun- 


204  THE  PROBLEM 

day  a  few  of  us  enjoyed  the  links.  Never  started 
so  early  before.  You  don't  object  to  Sunday  play- 
ing, do  you,  Miss  Warren  ?"  he  added  as  though  an 
after  thought. 

"Very  strongly,"  answered  Willa,  instantly. 

"Of  course  you  would  make  a  distinction,  con- 
sidering one's  profession  and  his  close  confinement 
on  other  days,  would  you  not?"  he  asked. 

"In  many  ways,  yes,  but  not  when  it  comes  to 
making  almost  a  Fourth  of  July  day  out  of  that 
most  sacred  day  of  the  week,  Mr.  Hastings,"  Willa 
replied. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  you,  Miss  Warren. 
Pray  tell  me  why  I,  for  instance,  shut  up  as  I  am 
through  the  week  should  not  spend  Sunday  in  God's 
glorious  out-doors,"  said  Hastings. 

"I  feel  that  it  all  depends  on  the  spirit  in  which 
the  day  is  spent.  Pray  tell  me,  Mr.  Hastings,  if, 
when  you  are  at  the  golf  links  playing  on  a  Sunday, 
you  are  thinking  of  God's  out-of-doors,  or  think- 
ing of  the  game." 

"Gee !  I'll  draw  her  out.  I  like  to  hear  her 
talk  for  she  looks  straight  at  a  fellow  when  she  is 
in  earnest,  but  I'll  change  her  views,"  he  said  to 
himself,  but  he  turned  to  her,  saying:  "No  matter 
what  one  does,  it  is  his  duty  to  do  it  to  the  best 
of  his  ability,  is  it  not?" 

"Most  assuredly,"  answered  Willa. 

"Then,  even  though  it  is  a  game,  he  needs  to 
think  about  it,  does  he  not?"  asked  Hastings. 

"But  we  are  off  from  the  subject.    To  my  mind 


THE  DISCUSSION  205 

the  question  is,  'is  the  game  right  or  necessary  on  a 
Sunday?'  "  she  answered. 

"No,  not  necessary,  but  where's  the  harm,  Miss 
Warren,  where's  the  harm?"  quiried  Hastings. 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  tell  you  just  exactly 
how  I  feel  about  some  of  those  things,  Mr.  Hast- 
ings?" asked  Willa. 

"Do,  please  do.  If  you  can  present  any  sane  up- 
to-date  reason,  I  should  like  to  hear  it,"  he  an- 
swered with  confidence. 

"You  will  admit,  Mr.  Hastings,  that  when  God 
put  us  here,  he  put  in  us  three  natures?"  she  asked. 

Hastings  would  have  been  much  better  prepared 
had  the  topic  under  discussion  begun  with,  "Know 
all  men  by  these  presents,"  or  a  familiar  "where- 
as;" as  it  was,  his  first  thought  had  been,  "Ani- 
mal, vegetable,  and  mineral,"  and  then  he  remem- 
bered that  this  group  referred  to  the  kingdoms. 
For  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  think  of  any  other 
group  of  "threes"  that  had  come  in  his  course  of 
training,  and  he  merely  conceded  a  mild  "yes," 
wondering  all  the  time  to  what  she  referred. 

"Three  natures,"  she  went  on,  "physical,  mental, 
and  moral." 

"Surely,  and  what  then?"  he  answered  as  though 
these  three  had  been  in  his  mind  from  the  begin- 
ning. 

"We  must  cultivate.  He  leaves  that  for  us  to 
do.  The  first,  our  physical,  we  cultivate  by  our 
exercise,  work  and  play;  our  mental,  by  attending 
school,  reading  and  studying;  and  our  moral,  by 


206  THE  PROBLEM 

enriching  the  spiritual  life  in  us,  partially  by  at- 
tending church,  partially  by  reading  the  highest 
and  best  literature,  but  more  by  just  thinking  of 
God  as  our  Father,  of  the  Bible  as  his  message  to 
us, — by  trying  to  be  what  He  would  have  us  be, 
and  to  do  what  He  would  have  us  do." 

Willa  paused  here,  still  looking  at  the  young 
man  by  her  side,  and  wondering  how  he  had  re- 
ceived her  message.  He  did  not  answer,  and  she 
went  on: 

"I  believe,  Mr.  Hastings,  if  any  man  or  woman 
cultivates  only  one  or  even  two  of  these  natures, 
and  leaves  the  other  uncultivated,  he  or  she,  in 
God's  sight  is  just  as  much  deformed  as  though 
born  a  hunchback,  dwarf,  cripple,  or  anything  else. 
A  person,  in  order  to  be  an  all  round  developed 
man  or  woman  must  be  cultivated  on  all  three  sides. 
Is  not  that  reasonable?"  she  asked. 

Being  a  lawyer,  her  listener  was  not  ready  to 
concede  the  argument  to  this  young  woman,  fair 
as  she  looked  to  him  at  that  moment.  Instead,  he 
thought  at  once  of  his  own  graceful  form,  of  which 
he  had  ever  been  proud,  and  said,  "Can  you  call 
me  a  deformed  man,  Miss  Warren?  Can  you, 
truly?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  not  your  judge,  Mr.  Hastings.  God  knows 
your  heart.  He  is  the  one  to  say, — He  and  you 
yourself,"  she  answered,  soberly. 

Again,  he  winced.  He  thought  of  the  many 
times  he  had  tried  to  deceive  her,  of  the  constant 
bluff  he  had  made,  of  the  way  his  conduct  had  been 


THE  DISCUSSION  207 

influenced  by  the  thought  of  her  one  day  coming 
into  the  possession  of  not  only  all  that  Dr.  War- 
ren had  accumulated,  but  all  that  Mr.  Holway 
owned,  as  well.  Was  his  moral  nature  cultivated? 
Was  he  an  all  round  developed  man?  He  shrank 
from  answering  the  question  even  to  himself. 

"Whether  you  are  a  'judge'  or  not,"  he  said  at 
last,  "you  would  make  a  mighty  good  lawyer.  I 
shall  have  to  admit,  Miss  Warren,  that  I  never 
thought  of  it  in  that  light  before.  I  guess  you've 
won  the  argument,  all  right,"  he  answered,  play- 
ing with  a  part  of  his  horse's  mane. 

"It  was  simply  a  little  common  sense,  that  was 
all,"  said  Willa.  "How  else  could  one  look  at  it 
and  be  fair  to  himself  and  fair  to  God?"  she  asked. 

"This  is  a  busy  world,  Miss  Warren.  Men  to- 
day can't  afford  to  take  time  to  think  about  some 
of  these  things.  They've  too  much  to  do,"  he  re- 
plied, in  a  defensive  tone. 

"Can't  afford  not  to  take  time,  you  mean,  Mr. 
Hastings,"  answered  Willa. 

"I  don't  like  talking  this  way,  Miss  Warren. 
Let's  not  spoil  our  little  ride  together  by  any  such 
arguing,"  he  answered. 

"Did  you  not  urge  me  to  give  you  my  candid 
opinion?"  she  asked. 

"Surely,  surely,"  replied  Hastings,  apologetic- 
ally, but,—" 

"And  will  you  admit  that  your  nature  is  not 
broad  enough,  not  deep  enough  to  hear  the  unbi- 
ased truth?"  asked  Willa,  searchingly. 


208  THE  PROBLEM 

They  were  within  half  a  mile  of  home.  Hast- 
ings felt  like  kicking  himself.  Had  he  dreamed 
she  could  or  would  have  spoken  as  she  had,  all 
might  have  been  different.  He  could  not  answer. 
He  still  fumbled  with  the  coarse,  stubby  mane  of 
Prince.  "I've  been  an  ass,"  he  said  to  himself,  but 
before  he  had  formed  an  answer  fitting  for  Willa 
to  hear,  she  said,  hurriedly. 

"Pardon  me,  "Mr.  Hastings,"  and  instantly 
reined  Beauty  to  a  curb  stone.  « 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Emmons?  I  wish  to  in- 
quire for  your  mother,"  said  Willa,  reaching  out  a 
hand  covered  with  a  neatly  fitting  riding  glove. 
"She  didn't  feel  well  at  all  yesterday,"  she  added, 
her  hand  still  within  Robert's. 

Hastings  was  keen  enough  to  catch  the  look  in 
each  of  their  eyes  as  they  shook  hands ;  and  he  also 
detected  a  different  tone  in  Willa's  voice  from  any 
that  had  ever  come  to  him. 

"The  jackass!"  said  Hastings.  "I'll  butcher 
him  some  day  if — ,  O,  thunder!  She  can't  like 
him,  that  poor  cuss,  but  he's  just  been  made  head 
bookkeeper.  Perhaps  that's  turned  his  head.  Old 
Holway  likes  him.  Damn  it  all !"  he  muttered  to 
himself. 

He  could  not  hear  all  that  the  two  said,  but 
enough  to  know  that  Willa  was  very  solicitous 
about  Robert's  mother ;  and  he  was  conscious,  too, 
that  their  "good-by"  was  accompanied  by  another 
handshake. 

"So  you've  turned  missionary,  have  you?"  he 


THE  DISCUSSION  209 

sarcastically  asked,  as  Willa  again  joined  him,  but 
Willa  completely  ignored  the  remark  by  saying : 

"Pardon  my  leaving  so  abruptly,  but  Robert's 
mother  and  I  are  great  friends.  I  love  her  dearly, 
and  she  was  not  at  all  well  when  I  was  there  yes- 
terday." 

"Calls  him  'Robert,'  eh?"  he  said  to  himself,  re- 
membering that  never  in  all  their  acquaintanceship 
had  either  ventured  over  the  boundary  line  of  cere- 
mony. 

"O,  that  old  cripple  of  a  woman,  the  one  who 
wears  the  'postage  stamp'  bonnet?"  he  asked,  with 
one  of  his  hearty  laughs. 

Willa  could  stand  a  slight,  a  slur  made  direct 
to  her,  but  she  could  not  stand  one  made  against  a 
friend.  Her  eyes  blazed.  It  seemed  as  though 
they  might  have  ignited  the  very  atmosphere  which 
her  companion  breathed. 

"Mrs.  Emmons  is  my  friend.  Mrs.  Emmons  is 
a  lady — lady  enough  to  have  brought  up  her  son  a 
gentleman!"  flashed  Willa,  giving  Beauty  her 
secret  signal  for  speed,  and  away  he  dashed,  his 
nose  straight  out,  never  looking  to  right  nor  left 
until  he  carried  his  fair  rider  into  the  yard  of  her 
own  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  PROMISE 

BEFORE  Willa  slept  that  night  the  bell 
was  rung  by  a  messenger  from  the  leading 
florist  of  the  town.     A  large  box  was 
passed  her,  and  she  asked  the  carrier  to 
wait  until  she  could  look  inside.     Finding  there, 
fastened  to  the  stem  of  one  of  the  many  roses,  a 
note  from  Hastings,  she  wheeled  the  paper  wrap- 
per around,  put  the  fresh  side  out,  and  again  folded 
it  about  the  box,  re-addressing  it  to  "Albert  Hast- 
ings, Esq."     This  little  act  was  brief.     The  boy 
took  the  box  with  a  sidewise  look  at  the  flushed 
face,  and  a  smile  of  approval,  for  Hastings  was  no 
favorite  with  either  young  or  old. 

"Does  he  think  flowers,  or  any  of  his  parleying 
can  take  the  sting  out  of  his  insult  to-day?  Never! 
Nothing  but  manhood  can  do  that,  and  he  isn't 
overburdened  with  that,  I  guess,"  Willa  said  to 
herself,  turning  more  calmly  to  go  to  her  mother's 
room. 

The  two  remaining  days  in  May,  and  each  suc- 
ceedirig  day  in  June  found  Mrs.  Warren  more  and 
more  nervous.  Willa,  in  her  care  of  her,  almost 
forgot  the  incident  of  that  Saturday.  Her  whole 
attention  was  needed  in  the  home  and  with  her 
mother.  She  and  her  father  had  agreed  that  Mrs. 
Warren  should  not  be  left  alone.  If  both  were 

210 


THE  PROMISE  211 

obliged  to  be  away  at  the  same  hour,  Grandma 
Holway  relieved  them  by  her  presence.  For  a  week 
the  woman  had  kept  her  bed  constantly,  and  yet 
she  suffered  no  pain,  no  ache.  The  big  man's  heart 
bled  and  ached;  he  knew  the  nervous  strain  under 
which  his  wife  was  passing,  and  he  longed  for  the 
day  to  come  when  possibly  her  mind  might  be  put 
at  rest.  The  sixteenth  came.  To-morrow  would 
be  Willa's  twenty-first  birthday.  The  girl  herself 
had  scarcely  given  it  a  thought.  Her  mind  and 
heart  were  full  of  her  mother's  trouble,  whatever 
that  might  be.  Over  and  over  again,  she  had  con- 
sulted her  father,  but  at  these  times  she  seemed  to 
get  no  particular  light.  This  night,  the  eve  of  her 
birthday,  she  beckoned  him  into  his  study. 

"Papa,  I  want  to  tell  you,"  she  said.  "I  know 
there  is  something  on  her  mind.  She  was  either 
dreaming  or  delirious.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  and 
I  couldn't  tell  which,  but  she  kept  talking  about  the 
'baby'  and  'Willa'  and  'baby  clothes,'  over  and 
over;  and  then  the  'woman'  and  letter.'  Every- 
thing was  all  jumbled  up.  I  thought  she  might  be 
thinking  of  Baby  Angie,  and  got  me  mixed  up  with 
her.  Do  you  think  that  was  it?"  asked  Willa,  rest- 
ing both  hands  on  the  broad  shoulders  which  of  late 
had  seemed  a  trifle  stooped. 

"No,  Willa,  I  don't  think  mama  was  confusing 
you  with  Angie.  Let's  sit  down,  dear,"  he  an- 
swered. 

He  drew  her  to  the  couch  beside  him,  put  an 
arm  around  her,  and  took  both  of  her  hands  in  one 


212  THE  PROBLEM 

of  his. 

"Mother  is  troubled,  Willa,"  he  said  gently, 
"very,  very  troubled,"  he  added  in  almost  a  whis- 
per. 

"Can't  you  tell  me,  father?"  Willa  asked,  plead- 
ingly. 

"To-morrow,"  came  the  faint  answer. 

"To-morrow?  Is  it  anything  to  do  with  me, 
father?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"Yes,  darling,  with  you,"  he  answered,  drawing 
her  to  him  and  kissing  her. 

"With  me  ?  Why,  father — anything  that  I  have 
done — that  I  can  help?"  asked  Willa. 

"Nothing  that  you  have  done,  nothing  that  you 
can  help,  Willa." 

A  long  sigh  of  relief  came  from  the  girl. 

"You  will  tell  me  to-morrow?"  she  asked.  "In 
the  morning?" 

"To-morrow,  in  the  morning,"  her  father  said, 
almost  mechanically. 

"It  isn't  any  bad  news,  is  it  father?"  Willa 
asked,  in  a  tone  of  dread  and  fear. 

"I  don't  know,  darling,"  he  answered. 

"Don't  know?  Why,  I  thought  you  were  to  tell 
me  to-morrow?"  she  replied,  wonderingly. 

"I'll  tell  you  to-morrow.  To-night,  I  do  not 
know  myself;  at  least,  only  a  little  of  it.  Then  I 
hope  I  shall  know  all,"  the  Doctor  replied. 

"About  me — mother  sick — tell  me  to-morrow — 
don't  know  now.  Father,  I  don't  understand,"  said 
Willa,  leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "You 


THE  PROMISE  213 

don't  think  mother'll  die?"  she  asked,  with  dread. 

"Not  until  the  right  time  comes,  if  she  has  you 
and  papa  with  her.  You  don't  know  how  dearly 
she  loves  you,  Willa,"  he  said,  patting  her  cheek, 
which  had  grown  a  little  pale  of  late. 

"She  is  the  best  mother  in  the  world,  and — 
you  are  the  best  father,"  she  answered,  again  kiss- 
ing him,  while  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"You  will  never — leave  us — until — until  you 
marry,  will  you  Willa?"  he  asked,  brokenly. 

"Why,  what  a  silly  papa !  Of  course  I  wouldn't. 
You  couldn't  get  along  without  Willa,  could  you 
father?"  she  asked,  cuddling  up  closer  than  before. 

"No,  darling,  I  don't  think  either  of  us  could. 
It  would  break  my  heart,  and  I  think  it  would  kill 
her.  You  couldn't  do  either,  could  you?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  father!  What  a  question!  You  know 
I  would  die  before  I  would  grieve  either  one  of 
you  intentionally.  You  know  I  would,  don't  you?" 
she  asked. 

"I  believe  you  would,  Willa,  and  no  little  girl 
or  no  big  girl  was  ever  loved  more  than  we  have 
loved  you.  You'll — never  leave  us — until — you — 
marry,  will  you,  Willa?"  he  again  asked,  in  almost 
the  same  words  as  before. 

Like  one  chanting,  Willa  calmly  said : 

"Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go;  and  where  thou 
lodgest  I  will  lodge;  thy  people  shall  be  my  peo- 
ple, and  thy  God,  my  God." 

The  words  came  reverently  and  yet  playfully,  as 
Willa  caressed  the  big  man  by  her  side.  No  answer 


2i4  THE  PROBLEM 

could  have  pleased  him  more  at  that  time.  He  knew 
then  that  no  matter  what  the  morrow  might  hold, 
nothing  could  make  Willa  forget  the  sacred  prom- 
ise she  had  just  given  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
BREAKING  THE  SEAL 

WILLA  went  to  bed  but  not  to  sleep 
until  the  gray  morning  light  was  creep- 
ing through  the  closed  shades  of  her 
cosy  room.  Something,  she  knew  not 
what,  was  hanging  over  her.  Her  mind  seemed  in 
a  whirl.  Sometimes  she  felt  as  though  she  were 
stifling,  and  would  throw  both  arms  across  the  bed, 
trying  to  take  in  one  long  breath  to  refresh  her. 
Never  in  all  her  life  had  such  a  feeling  come  to 
her.  What  could  it  mean? 

"To-morrow,  father'll  tell  me.  I  don't  under- 
stand," she  said  to  herself  more  times  than  she  was 
years  old.  Hours  passed  before  she  lost  herself  in 
the  restless,  troubled  sleep  which  failed  to  break  at 
the  usual  rising  hour. 

In  the  room  below  Mrs.  Warren  had  already 
opened  her  eyes.  When  she  saw  that  her  husband, 
also,  was  awake,  she  turned  to  him  with  the  words, 
"Is  this  the  day,  Hunt?" 

"It's  the  day,  Margaret,"  he  answered,  sliding 
one  arm  under  her  head. 

"Let  us  get  up,"  she  said,  calmly. 

"I'll  get  up,  but  you  wait  until  I  can  bring  you 
coffee,"  he  answered,  as  though  not  in  the  least  sur- 
prised at  her  suggestion. 

She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  and  then  leaned 
215 


216  THE  PROBLEM 

back,  saying,  "Very  well,  when  you  bring  the  cof- 
fee." 

The  Doctor  hurriedly  dressed,  found  that  Jen- 
nie had  the  coffee  nearly  ready,  and  soon  carried 
a  cup  of  it  to  his  wife. 

"I  am  ready  now,"  she  said  later,  stepping  from 
the  bed  the  first  time  for  over  a  week. 

The  Doctor  understood  nerves,  and  he  let  her 
carry  out  her  own  wishes.  Soon  she  appeared  in  a 
dainty  gown  of  blue  and  white  challie,  of  which 
Willa  was  very  fond,  and  with  her  hair  done  in  her 
usual  becoming  way. 

"It's  Willa's  birthday,"  she  said,  like  one  in  a 
dream,  as  she  approached  him. 

"It's  Willa's  birthday,  mother,"  he  answered, 
slipping  his  arm  through  hers  and  starting  for  the 
dining-room. 

"We  must  have  flowers.  We  always  do,"  she 
said,  looking  at  the  table. 

"So  we  do.    I—" 

"Let's  go  gather  them.  She  may  be  up  herself 
by  that  time,"  suggested  Mrs.  Warren. 

"Just  as  you  say.  It  is  a  glorious  morning.  I'm 
glad  for  that,"  he  answered,  opening  a  little  draw- 
er, and  taking  from  it  a  pair  of  garden  scissors. 
"I'll  get  a  basket,  mother,"  he  added. 

The  two  started,  each  conscious  of  the  greatness 
of  the  hurt  that  this  awful  weight  made  on  the 
heart  of  the  other,  and  each  trying  for  the  sake  of 
the  other  to  be  calm  and  cool  and  collected.  Many 
different  kinds  of  roses  bloomed  in  their  garden, 


BREAKING  THE  SEAL  217 

and  some  of  each  were  gathered.  They  did  not 
know  that  the  two  loving,  loyal  souls  in  the  next 
house  had  seen  them  and  wondered  what  had 
"come  over  Margaret,"  and  were,  in  their  curiosity, 
starting  to  join  them. 

"Why,  it's  father  and  mother,"  said  Margaret, 
in  surprise;  and  then,  going  toward  them,  said  in 
the  same  even  tones  used  on  waking,  "It's  Willa's 
birthday,  you  know.  Willa  needs  mother  to-day. 
Mother'll  stand  by  her." 

The  Doctor,  putting  his  arm  around  her,  said : 

"Come,  mother,  let's  go  in." 

His  heart  was  so  full  he  could  not  say  more,  but 
grandpa  and  grandma  understood,  and  all  went 
into  the  house  together  just  as  Willa  came  down 
the  stairs. 

"Mama !"  she  cried,  catching  sight  of  the  dainty 
figure,  the  sight  of  which  seemed  almost  too  good 
to  be  true. 

"I  guess  you  are  my  birthday  present,"  she 
added,  loosening  her  embrace  and  looking  into  her 
mother's  eyes. 

"All  ready  for  breakfast,  now,"  said  the  Doctor: 
"Let's  go  in." 

"The  flowers.  Let  us  fix  them  now,"  said  his 
wife,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  last  word  which 
made  the  Doctor  remember  that  there  was  some- 
thing later  not  so  cheery  to  take  up  their  attention. 

"I'll  fix  them,"  said  Willa.  "O,  they  are  beau- 
ties," she  cried.  "The  punch  bowl  will  be  just  the 
thing.  It  will  hold  them  all." 


218  THE  PROBLEM 

With  the  basket  in  one  hand  she  started  for  the 
kitchen,  thus  giving  grandpa  and  grandma  a  chance 
to  slip  a  neat  little  white  box  by  the  side  of  another 
already  at  Willa's  plate. 

"She'll  be  brave.  She  knows  that  something 
is  coming,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"How?"  asked  the  three. 

"She  was  worried  about  her  mother  last  night, 
and  asked  some  straight  questions  which  I  an- 
swered," he  replied. 

"She  doesn't  mistrust?" 

"Not  that,  no,  but  she  knows  there  is  something 
unusual  that  she  is  to  hear  to-day,"  replied  the  Doc- 
tor. 

"I'm  glad  you  prepared  her.  It's  just  like  you," 
said  his  wife,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Willa  then  joined  them  and  the  whole  room  was 
soon  fragrant  with  the  perfume  of  roses.  The  five 
were  seated,  for  grandpa  and  grandma,  although 
they  had  had  their  own  breakfast,  consented  to 
have  another  cup  of  coffee  with  the  "children"  as 
they  called  the  Doctor,  Margaret,  and  Willa,  who, 
seeing  the  packages  by  her  plate,  laughed  her  old 
childish  laugh,  exclaiming,  "  'You  are  the  best 
foxes  a  little  girl  ever  hed !'  I  wonder  what  it  is !" 

She  first  picked  up  the  box  on  top,  which  was 
marked,  "From  Grandpa  and  Grandma,"  within 
which  she  found  not  a  large  but  a  genuine  diamond 
ring,  with  her  initials  and  the  date  inside. 

"O,  you  dears,  dears!"  she  cried,  jumping  from 
the  table  and  going  to  give  each  of  them  a  hug  and 


BREAKING  THE  SEAL  219 

kiss ;  and  then,  back  at  her  place  again,  she  opened 
another  box,  repeating  her  expressions  of  joy  to 
her  father  and  mother  before  she  could  remove 
from  its  dainty  resting  place  the  delicately  made 
chain  and  locket,  the  latter  bearing  her  monogram, 
and  enclosing,  on  one  side  a  picture  of  her  father; 
on  the  opposite,  that  of  her  mother. 

"I'll  love  them  always,"  she  said  with  feeling, 
glancing  first  at  the  ring,  and  then  caressing  the 
locket  on  the  chain  about  her  neck. 

Her  father  had  been  helping  serve  the  breakfast 
and  her  mother  pouring  the  coffee  while  Willa  had 
enjoyed  the  surprises  arranged  for  her.  None  of 
them  ate  much.  To  the  older  ones,  all  the  joy 
savored  of  mockery  when  they  realized  the  nature 
of  what  was  ahead;  nevertheless,  all  her  life  long, 
they  had  been  as  true  to  her  as  to  their  own,  and 
they  would  continue  to  be. 

Although  Willa  endeavored  to  be  her  own  usual 
self,  her  heart  all  the  while  was  anxious.  She  kept 
thinking  of  her  father's  words  the  evening  before; 
and,  when  breakfast  was  finished,  she  slipped  from 
her  chair,  went  over  to  him,  and,  winding  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  whispered,  "Are  you  going  to  tell 
me  now,  father?" 

He  clasped  both  of  his  hands  over  hers  for  a 
few  moments  before  he  could  say,  "Just  as  you 
wish,  dear." 

"I  want  it  now,  please.  It  troubled  me  all  last 
night,  father,"  answered  Willa. 

"It  troubled  me,  too,  dear, — troubled  us  all,  I 


220  THE  PROBLEM 

think,"  he  answered,  tenderly. 

"Do  they  all  know,  father,  all  but  me?"  she 
asked. 

"They  know  what  I  know,  that  is  all.  Do  you 
want  them  to  come  with  us  into  the  study?"  he 
asked,  resolutely  taking  her  arm  in  his. 

Never  in  all  his  life  had  the  man  performed  so 
hard  a  task.  He  felt  as  though  life  itself  was  slow- 
ly ebbing  from  him.  Only  the  sound  of  Willa's 
voice  enabled  him  again  to  face  the  problem  be- 
fore him. 

"Of  course,  I  want  them  all,"  she  answered.  "I 
feel  awfully  funny,  father.  You  never  did  this  be- 
fore on  any  birthday,  did  you?" 

"Over  here,  Willa,"  he  said,  leading  her  to  the 
long  sofa  where  they  had  sat  the  evening  before. 

Mrs.  Warren,  pale  as  death  followed.  Her 
father  and  mother  dared  not  take  their  eyes  from 
her,  as  she  seated  herself  on  the  right  of  Willa. 
The  Doctor  nervously  opened  his  safe,  and  took 
from  within  a  long  envelope,  yellow  with  age. 
With  that  in  his  hand,  he  sat  down  on  Willa's  left. 
He  winked  hard.  The  muscles  of  his  face  jerked. 
Willa's  eyes  were  on  him.  She  had  never  seen  him 
look  like  this  before. 

"What  can  it  be  ?"  she  asked  herself. 

"You  know  there  is  something  I  want  to  tell 
you,  Willa?"  he  at  last  said. 

"No,  papa.  I  think  it  is  something  you  feel  that 
you  must  tell  me.  I  don't  believe  if  you  really 
wanted  to  tell  me  you  would  look  like  that,"  she 


BREAKING  THE  SEAL  221 

said,  heroically. 

"You  know  father,  don't  you,  dear?"  he  replied, 
looking  up  at  her. 

Tears  were  in  the  eyes  of  all  save  Willa. 

"I  must  do  it;  yes,  Willa,  must  is  the  word,"  he 
answered. 

"Go  on,"  she  said,  encouragingly. 

And  then,  in  a  sweet,  tactful,  resolute  way  he 
began  at  the  beginning,  and  with  stroke  after  stroke 
painted  for  the  girl  by  his  side,  in  the  most  deli- 
cate shades  obtainable,  the  picture  that  he  had  car- 
ried in  his  mind  ever  since  that  eventful  day  so 
long  ago.  At  first  Willa  saw  only  a  country  scene, 
a  country  home,  and  then  she  began  to  see  a  resem- 
blance between  the  man  belonging  to  it  and 
her  father;  another,  between  the  woman  and 
her  mother.  Soon  a  shadow  of  the  truth  crept 
across  her  mind ;  she  turned  pale ;  her  lips  parted; 
her  eyes  almost  looked  through  the  speaker,  as  she 
said,  "father,  you — don't — mean — " 

"Our  darling,"  he  breathed,  folding  his  arms 
around  her. 

Each  one  seemed  speechless,  stunned,  staggered. 
Willa's  head  drooped,  and  her  mother  cried: 

"Water.    She's  fainted.    My  Willa!" 

When  again  the  big,  blue  eyes  opened,  Willa  was 
on  her  own  bed,  her  father  on  one  side,  her  mother 
on  the  other. 

"My  Willa !"  wailed  her  mother,  pitifully. 

Willa  only  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  again  be- 
came unconscious.  Never  were  services  rendered 


222  THE  PROBLEM 

more  faithfully,  heroically,  lovingly.  Grandpa  and 
grandma  took  the  two  attendants  whatever  was 
needed.  Not  once  did  they  leave  her  bedside  until 
the  opening  of  the  eyes  was  accompanied  by  the 
faintest  color  in  lips  and  cheeks.  No  word  came. 
Only  through  her  eyes  did  they  know  that  she  was 
conscious.  These  would  open,  look  at  the  two 
watchers,  and  close  again.  For  nearly  three  hours 
she  lay  in  this  condition ;  and  then,  when  she  kept 
her  eyes  open  longer  than  usual,  her  mother  slipped 
from  the  room  to  bring  a  cup  of  chicken  broth.  On 
her  return,  she  found  the  Doctor  kneeling  by  the 
bed,  his  head  beside  Willa's,  and  her  arm  thrown 
over  him.  No  word  had  yet  been  spoken,  but  the 
mother  knew  that  her  child  was  slowly  coming  to 
herself  again. 

"Take  this,  dear.  It  will  do  you  good,"  she 
said. 

Willa  did  not  answer,  but  lifted  her  arm  from 
her  father's  neck,  and  allowed  him  to  raise  her  in 
a  position  to  drink.  As  soon  as  the  last  swallow 
was  taken,  she  sank  back  among  the  pillows.  For 
several  moments  she  lay  without  moving  a  muscle, 
and  then  with  a  shudder  she  rose,  looked  from 
one  to  the  other,  saying,  "The  letter.  It — " 

Willa  fell  back,  but  did  not  finish  her  sentence. 

"Here  is  the  letter,  dear.  It  is  yours.  When 
you  are  strong  enough  for  it,  you  will  tell  father, 
won't  you?"  he  asked,  placing  the  letter  in  one  of 
her  hands. 

Willa  nodded,  and  moved  her  lips,  but  no  sound 


BREAKING  THE  SEAL  223 

came. 

"We  love  you  so,"  said  Mrs.  Warren,  climbing 
up  on  the  back  of  Willa's  bed,  and  lying  down  be- 
side her. 

"Mother!"  said  Willa,  turning  over  and  putting 
her  arms  around  her. 

"Thank  God!"  said  the  Doctor,  slipping  from 
the  room  and  leaving  the  two  together.  "She 
called  her  'Mother,'  "  he  said  under  his  breath. 

Having  told  Jennie  in  the  morning  to  refuse  all 
calls  for  him,  he  threw  himself  on  the  sofa  in  his 
study  and  tried  to  think.  From  time  to  time  he 
heard  the  murmur  of  voices  above,  and  knew  that 
his  wife  and  Willa  were  talking.  The  sound  seemed 
like  music  to  him. 

"So  much  is  over,"  he  said  to  himself,  "but  even 
now,  we  know  no  more  than  before,"  he  added  with 
a  sigh.  In  a  half  hour's  time,  he  heard  steps,  first 
above,  and  then  on  the  stairs. 

"Here,  father,"  said  Willa,  passing  him  the 
letter. 

"It's  yours,  Willa,"  he  answered,  rising.  "Fath- 
er wouldn't  open  it,  unless — " 

"We  want  you  to.  You  read  it.  It  has  got  to 
come  sometime,"  she  said,  briefly,  still  clinging  to 
her  mother. 

The  words  seemed  to  give  the  Doctor  new  cour- 
age. The  shock  to  the  girl  had  already  been  felt, 
and  she  had  still  called  them,  "father"  and  "moth- 
er." 

"You  break  the  seal,  Willa.    I  won't  betray  the 


224  THE  PROBLEM 

trust  she  put  in  me,  not  even  now,"  he  said,  pass- 
ing the  envelope  to  her  again. 

Willa  took  it,  let  it  fall  in  her  lap,  and  then 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Whether  she  was 
saying  a  little  prayer  for  strength,  or  simply  dread- 
ing the  task  before  her,  neither  knew.  In  a  few 
moments,  she  lifted  her  head,  raised  the  written 
address  to  her  lips,  and  then  walked  to  the  win- 
dow, gazing  far  to  the  east  before  she  tore  the  end 
from  the  envelope  and  drew  from  within  the  folded 
sheets. 

"Read,"  she  again  said,  chokingly,  passing  them 
to  her  father. 

"A  Marriage  Certificate,"  said  the  Doctor,  un- 
folding the  thickest  paper. 

"Emily  May  Livermore  to  Ernest  Howard  Stan- 
ton,  May  1 6,  1870.  Signed,  Milton  D.  Thorndike, 
clergyman." 

He  paused,  saying  briefly  to  himself,  "Liver- 
more,  Stanton." 

"The  letter"  reminded  Willa,  anxious  to  know 
the  worst  at  once. 

A  long  sigh  came  from  the  Doctor  as  he  un- 
folded the  closely  written  sheets,  prepared  so  long 
ago  for  Willa,  their  Willa — the  mother's  Willa, 
then. 

"Mv  DEAR  LITTLE  GIRL:"    It  began. 

"I  wonder  if  ever  a  mother  had  such  a  hard  task 
to  perform  as  I  have  now.  I  want  to  tell  you 
enough  so  that  you  will  at  all  times  understand  my 


BREAKING  THE  SEAL  225 

action,  and  enough  to  make  your  mind  at  peace  af- 
ter you  have  heard  all. 

"I  was  brought  up  in  what  was  considered  a 
wealthy  home,  the  daughter  of  Silas  Nason  Liver- 
more,  and  loved  as  few  children  are  loved.  One 
day  when  I  was  twenty-two  I  met  your  father, 
Ernest  Howard  Stanton,  who  had  been  sent  as 
foreman  on  an  engineering  job  in  our  section.  For 
six  months  he  was  in  that  locality.  We  met.  We 
learned  to  love  each  other  very,  very  dearly.  My 
father,  however,  and  my  only  brother,  Charles 
Stanley  Livermore,  refused  to  recognize  him." 

"It  is  our  Livermores  I"  Mrs.  Warren  exclaimed, 
"isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  must  be,"  the  Doctor  answered.  "Her 
brother  must  have  been  Henry's  father.  How 
strange!"  he  said,  turning  a  page  to  continue: 

"They  so  idolized  me  that  I  think  they  would 
have  felt  that  no  president,  no  prince  was  quite 
good  enough  for  me.  I  was  looking  for  nobility, 
but  in  character,  not  rank.  They  said,  'If  you  mar- 
ry that  Stanton,  you  never  shall  have  a  cent;  you 
will  be  ignored  in  the  will,'  and  as  they  spoke,  I  was 
saying  to  myself:  Til  marry  him  or  no  one.' 

"They  meant  their  part.  I  meant  mine.  My 
mother  was  dead.  I  was  of  age.  When  Ernest's 
work  was  finished,  he  left  and  I  left  with  him. 
All  the  money  in  the  world  couldn't  have  bought 
my  love  from  me. 


226  THE  PROBLEM 

"My  husband,  for  we  were  married  at  once,  al- 
ready had  the  offer  of  a  new  situation;  and,  think- 
ing it  would  be  more  difficult  for  them  should  they 
try  to  trace  us,  he  resigned  his  old  and  accepted  the 
new,  which  took  him  to  Los  Angeles,  California. 

"For  a  time  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  lived  in 
heaven  itself.  I  think  your  father  was  the  best 
man  I  ever  knew ;  at  least,  he  was  the  best,  the  only 
one  for  me.  After  a  year,  a  little  boy  came  to 
keep  us  company,  but  God  let  him  stay  only  a  few 
short  months.  He  was  such  a  beautiful  child  that 
I  always  felt  the  angels  wanted  him  to  help  make 
heaven  more  beautiful.  And  then,  one  day,  about 
three  months  before  you  were  born,  your  father 
was  brought  home  crushed,  mangled,  but  not  dead. 

"His  most  intimate  friend,  Willard  Irving,  broke 
the  news  to  me  as  gently  as  possible.  He  stood  by 
us  through  it  all." 

"Why,  Hunt,"  again  broke  in  Mrs.  Warren. 
"Willard  Irving,— it  must  be  Clifford!" 

"I  don't  think  I  could  be  surprised  at  anything 
now,"  he  answered,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  again 
read: 

"I  did  everything,  dear,  that  could  be  done.  We 
had  all  the  noted  specialists  for  miles  around.  Our 
money  went,  but  he  had  to  go,  too,  just  three  weeks 
before  you  came. 

"I  had  already  suffered  so  much  that  I  was  in 
no  condition  to  suffer  more.  When  the  doctors 


BREAKING  THE  SEAL  227 

found  out  the  truth,  they  told  me  to  go  home  if  I 
could. 

"I  resolved  that  I  would  never  go  back,  after 
being  disowned  as  I  was,  and  my  only  thought  was 
of  you.  This  Mr.  Irving,  your  father's  friend  and 
mine,  told  me  much  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren,  and 
through  some  other  friend  of  his,  I  do  not  know 
whom,  he  learned  that  they  had  lost  their  own  lit- 
tle girl.  He  urged  me  to  go  to  them,  tell  them  my 
story,  and  ask  them  to  take  you  and  bring  you  up 
as  their  own. 

"Knowing,  as  I  do,  that  my  trouble  is  incurable, 
I  dare  not  run  the  risk  of  telling  them  at  this  time 
who  I  am,  lest  they  feel  that  they  must  report  the 
case  to  my  father,  and  I  could  not  take  anything 
from  him  now,  after  what  he  did  to  his  baby  girl. 
I  am,  therefore,  going  to  try  another  course,  of 
which  they  will  tell  you. 

"If  they  keep  you,  and  I  do  believe  that  God 
will  answer  my  prayer  that  they  may,  I  know  that 
all  good  things  will  be  done  for  you,  and  that  you 
will  be  brought  up  in  a  way  to  prove  a  blessing  to 
them  as  long  as  they  live. 

"God  bless  my  little  girl.  May  He  ever  let  his 
angels  hover  about  you,  guarding  you,  and  keep- 
ing you.  In  case  you  are  still  with  them,  and  read- 
ing this  on  your  twenty-first  birthday,  I  pray,  dear, 
that  you  may  realize  that  they  have  been  agents 
from  God,  taking  the  places  of  your  father  and 
me,  and  that  you  may  never  forsake  them. 

"Again,   from  the  very  depths  of  a  mother's 


THE  PROBLEM 

heart,  I  say,  'God  bless  you  and  help  you  to  think 
tenderly  and  kindly  of  the  mother  who  is  doing  the 
hardest  thing  now  that  a  true  mother  could  possibly 
do.     Be  brave  and  good.' 
"A  heart  full  of  love,  from 

"MOTHER." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
HEART  TO  HEART 

FOR  days  the  Doctor  and  his  wife  noticed 
that  Willa  was  troubled.    She  endeavored 
to  appear  the  same  and  do  the  same,  but 
her  cheeks  grew  both  thinner  and  paler. 
The  Doctor  knew,  too,  that  she  was  not  sleeping 
as  she  ought,  for  night  after  night  he  heard  her 
tiptoe  across  the  floor  of  her  room  above,  some- 
times to  the  window,  sometimes  in  the  direction  of 
her  desk.     Several  minutes  would  pass  before  she 
would  again  go  to  her  bed.     Never  had  she  been 
more  tender,  more  thoughtful  of  their  comfort  than 
now.    Nothing  escaped  her.    Everything  was  done, 
but  the  girl  was  troubled.     The  big  man  felt  sure 
of  that. 

"What  can  we  do  ?  What  can  we  do  ?"  he  asked 
himself  over  and  over  again. 

A  week  passed,  and  again  the  Doctor  called  her 
to  his  study. 

"I've  been  thinking,  little  girl,  and  I  have  a 
plan ;  or  rather  your  mother  and  I  have  it  together, 
and  we  want  your  approval,"  he  said. 

"It's  something  about  me,  I  know.  What  is  it, 
father?"  asked  Willa. 

"Mother  and  I  not  only  want  you  ours  in  name 
and  heart,  but  we  want  you  legally  ours.  You  are 
all  we  have.  We  want  to  adopt  you,  so  that  you 

229 


230  THE  PROBLEM 

will  be  Willa  Warren  in  reality,  our  very  own.  We 
would  be  happier,  and  I  think  you  would  be,  Wil- 
la," said  the  Doctor,  tenderly. 

"Can  it  be  done?  I  know  I  should,"  Willa  re- 
plied, eagerly. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  he  said.  "I  will  see  about  it  just 
as  soon  as  the  Colonel  returns.  He'll  be  back  in  a 
day  or  two.  Legal  papers  will  have  to  be  made 
out,  and  I  had  rather  have  him  attend  to  them  than 
Hastings,  although  done  in  the  office,  I  suppose  he 
will  have  to  know  about  it." 

"I  don't  care  for  Hastings,  nor  for  what  he 
thinks,"  said  Willa,  who  then  told  her  father  of 
that  last  ride  with  him,  of  the  flowers  and  the  let- 
ter afterward,  and  her  return  of  them. 

"You  are  all  right,  Willa,"  said  her  father,  put- 
ting one  arm  around  her  and  patting  her  head  with 
the  hand  of  the  other.  "Emmons  is  a  gentleman," 
he  went  on,  "and  you  did  right  to  stand  up  for  him 
and  his  mother." 

Willa  did  not  answer,  but  something,  she  scarce- 
ly knew  what,  made  her  feel  glad  that  her  father 
spoke  as  he  did. 

"I'll  see  about  the  papers.  Mother  will  be  so 
glad,"  he  continued. 

The  next  afternoon  Willa  went  to  the  stable,  and 
the  very  sight  of  her  made  Beauty  coax  for  a  gal- 
lop. He  whinnied,  he  stepped  around,  he  stretched 
out  his  nose  toward  her,  he  bowed  his  neck,  and 
finally,  in  his  delight,  he  jumped,  lifting  for  the 
moment  all  four  feet  from  the  floor. 


HEART  TO  HEART  231 

"You  dear  old  boy,"  said  Willa,  going  to  him 
and  caressing  him  like  a  human  being.  "We'll  have 
the  saddle  on.  We  will,  Beauty.  You  just  wait," 
she  said,  going  to  the  stable  door. 

"Mike !  Mike !"  she  called,  to  the  joint  helper  of 
the  two  families. 

"Och.  Yis,  Miss  Willa,  I'll  shtop,  an'  be  right 
wid  yees,"  answered  Mike  in  a  high  key. 

"Will  you  saddle  Beauty,  please  Mike,  and  bring 
him  around?  I  can't  stand  his  coaxing  any  long- 
er," said  Willa. 

"Yis,  Miss  Willa,  Mike'll  saddle  Beauty,  fer 
sure,  an'  it's  proud  he'll  ba  to  do  it,"  said  Mike. 
"Ha's  been  warntin'  a  spane  this  mony  a  day,"  he 
added. 

"Thank  you,  Mike,"  answered  Willa,  tripping 
to  the  house  more  like  her  old  self  than  Mike  or 
anyone  else  had  seen  her  for  days. 

When  on  Beauty's  back,  she  let  him  follow  his 
own  inclination,  rather  than  her  own,  except  inas- 
much as  their  wishes  agreed.  To  Willa's  amaze- 
ment he  first  took  her  around  this  square  and  that 
square,  and  then  started  straight  out  on  the  Main 
street  itself  to  the  suburb  of  Lakeville,  out  to  Mrs. 
Emmons's.  Without  a  word  from  his  rider  he 
stopped  at  the  door  of  her  friend  and  his  friend; 
for  there,  the  lot  was  fenced  in,  and  he  was  allowed 
to  crop  all  the  grass  he  liked.  Willa  was  forced 
to  smile  and  to  pat  him  gently  when  she  saw  what 
he  had  done.  Quickly  she  dismounted,  lowered  the 
check,  made  the  usual  slipknot  and  left  him. 


43*  THE  PROBLEM 

"You  blessed  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Emmons. 
"Where  have  you  been?"  she  asked. 

Willa  told  her  of  her  mother's  illturn,  of  her 
necessary  stay  at  home,  but  did  not  tell  her  of  the 
news  that  had  so  nearly  crushed  her. 

So  many  days  having  passed  since  the  two  had 
been  together,  Mrs.  Emmons  could  not  accept  a 
"no"  from  Willa  when  inviting  her  to  stay  for  sup- 
per. When  the  visitor  saw  that  her  friend  would 
not  only  feel  sorry,  but  hurt,  she  consented;  and, 
strangely  at  that  very  moment,  recalled  her  father's 
words  and  tone  of  the  evening  before.  At  five 
Robert  came.  Everything  was  as  usual.  All  were 
apparently  happy.  When  the  clock  struck  seven, 
Willa  told  them  she  must  go.  Robert  started  for 
Beauty,  but  evidently  Beauty  was  not  in  so  great  a 
hurry  as  Willa;  for,  when  he  saw  Robert  ap- 
proaching, he  lifted  his  head  and  started  on,  look- 
ing back  frequently  enough  to  make  sure  he  was 
in  the  lead.  Willa  and  his  mother  watched  from 
the  kitchen  window,  and  laughed  at  every  fresh  at- 
tempt on  Robert's  part. 

"You  mischief,  Beauty!  I'll  have  to  go  my- 
self," said  Willa.  He'd  follow  me  to  the  North 
Pole  if  I  should  start." 

"It's  too  bad,  but  the  grass  isn't  damp  yet,  I 
guess,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"O,  no,  that's  all  right,  but  I  shall  have  to  go. 
Beauty  is  just  that  stubborn,"  replied  Willa,  who 
said  "good-by"  and  started  for  the  trouble  maker, 
promising  another  visit  in  the  near  future. 


HEART  TO  HEART  233 

At  sight  of  her,  Beauty  wheeled,  tossed  his  head, 
and  started  toward  her. 

"You  bad  Beauty!  You  shouldn't  tease  anyone 
like  that,"  said  Willa,  and  Beauty  for  answer 
swung  his  head  around  to  look  at  Robert  as  much 
as  to  say,  "I  wouldn't  for  you,  but  I  will  for  her." 

"I  see  you  will,"  said  Robert,  laughing.  "But 
isn't  he  a  knowing  one?"  he  added,  turning  to 
Willa. 

"Beauty  is  worth  his  weight  in  gold,"  answered 
Willa,  "aren't  you,  Beauty?"  she  asked,  leaning  her 
face  against  his  and  patting  him,  never  thinking  at 
that  moment  that  Robert  was  looking  on,  wishing 
down  deep  in  his  heart  that  he  might  be  in  Beauty's 
place  for  just  five  minutes. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  bothered  you,  but  I  thank 
you  just  the  same,"  said  Willa,  extending  her  hand. 

Robert  took  it  in  a  hearty,  earnest  grasp,  and 
as  he  did  so,  their  eyes  met  in  a  different  way  from 
that  in  the  past.  One  focus  was  reached  and  for 
several  seconds  it  seemed  as  though  neither  one 
could  move  a  lid  or  a  muscle.  They  stood  there  as 
though  riveted  to  the  spot.  Their  lips  never  moved 
to  speak  a  word.  Neither  could  have  measured  the 
seconds  that  passed.  At  last,  they  seemed  at  the 
same  moment  to  realize  that  this  would  not  do. 
Their  hands  separated,  their  eyes  fell,  and  Willa 
reached  for  the  reins.  It  seemed  to  her  that  in 
the  past  days,  months,  now  years  since  she  had 
first  known  who  he  was,  and  later  known  him,  she 
had  never  really  seen  his  true  self  before.  To  her, 


234  THE  PROBLEM 

it  seemed  that  in  that  space  of  time  her  soul  and 
his  soul  had  met  for  the  first  time,  and  that  they 
had  much  to  say  to  each  other;  and,  letting  their 
souls  talk,  their  lips  did  not  need  to.  Never,  in 
all  their  lives,  had  they  really  said  half  so  much  as 
in  those  few  brief  moments.  Willa  felt  that  Rob- 
ert had  never  looked  so  strong,  so  manly,  so  frank, 
so  honest,  so  noble. 

The  next  moment  she  was  on  Beauty's  back.  She 
couldn't  have  told  how  she  got  there,  but  there  she 
was;  and,  taking  the  reins,  she  saw  his  hand  ex- 
tended quickly,  heard  a  quick  "good-by,"  which  was 
as  quickly  returned,  and  Beauty  started. 

Willa's  heart  beat  in  a  new  way.  She  tried  to 
calm  Beauty  down  to  a  steady  walk.  She  wanted 
a  chance  to  think,  and  think  she  did ;  not  only  then, 
but  long  after  she  went  to  her  room  that  night. 
She  could  do  nothing  but  think,  and  her  thoughts, 
somehow,  brought  her  a  new  joy  that  drove  the 
needed  sleep  away. 

Morning  came,  and  in  the  first  mail  she  found 
a  brief  note,  penned  the  evening  before.  It  read : 

"DEAR  WILLA: 

"For  a  long  time  I  have  waited  until  you  were 
twenty-one  before  telling  you  that  I  love  you.  To- 
night I  felt  the  time  had  come,  that  I  could  not 
wait  longer.  Can  you,  Willa,  can  you  return  that 
love  and  consent  to  be  my  wife? 

"Yours  in  all  sincerity, 

"ROBERT." 


HEART  TO  HEART  235 

When  Willa  read  the  note  she  ran  to  her  room 
without  a  word,  and  shut  the  door.  She  threw  her- 
self on  the  bed  and  cried  as  though  crying  was  the 
only  thing  in  all  the  world  to  do  at  that  particular 
moment.  She  knew  not  what  caused  the  tears. 
They  just  came.  Between  the  different  outbreaks 
she  read  and  re-read  the  note  until  each  word  in  it 
seemed  branded  on  her  brain  never  to  be  erased. 
When  over  an  hour  had  passed,  she  heard  her 
father's  step,  and  his  voice  at  her  door,  saying, 
"May  I  come,  Willa?" 

Three  times  he  called  before  he  heard  any  re- 
sponse. She  then  unlocked  the  door,  replying, 
"Yes,  father.  It's  all  right." 

"You  look  as  though  it  was  all  wrong.  What  is 
it,  Willa?  Can't  you  tell  father?" 

For  answer  she  passed  him  the  note,  and  walked 
to  the  window,  looking  out  on  the  lawn. 

The  Doctor  read  it,  drew  a  deep  breath,  waited 
a  few  moments,  and  then  joined  her  with  the  one 
word,  "Well?" 

"I  love  him,  father,"  she  said  bravely,  although 
the  words  were  scarcely  above  a  whisper. 

"I  know  it,  dear.  I  have  known  it  for  a  long 
time,  Willa,"  he  answered. 

"How?"  she  asked,  wonderingly. 

"In  a  lot  of  ways,"  he  replied.  "You  didn't 
speak  of  him  the  same  as  you  do  of  Hastings  and 
all  the  others,  and  you  look  differently  when  he  is 
mentioned;  besides  I  was  sort  of  prepared,  for 
long  ago  I  knew  that  he  loved  you." 


236  THE  PROBLEM 

"How,  father?"  she  again  asked. 

Dr.  Warren  then  told  her  of  the  noble  step  taken 
more  than  two  years  before,  and  of  the  young 
man's  promise  to  wait  until — " 

"He  doesn't  know?"  gasped  Willa. 

"No,  nothing,"  answered  her  father,  "except 
that  you  would  promise  no  one  until  after  you 
were  twenty-one.  He  has  been  a  patient  boy,  and 
a  good  one,  Willa." 

"I  know  it.    What  shall  I  say?"  she  asked. 

"Whatever  your  own  heart  tells  you  to,  Willa," 
the  Doctor  answered,  gently. 

"I  ought  to  tell  mother,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  we'll  tell  her,"  he  answered. 

******** 

The  following  morning  Robert  received  a  note 
briefer  than  his  own;  it  contained  only  the  one 
word,  "Come,"  but  that  word  made  his  whole  day 
happy.  What  was  ahead  of  him?  He  scarcely 
dared  think.  The  figures  on  ledger  and  journal 
seemed  dancing,  playing  around,  first,  the  word 
"Willa,"  and  then  the  word,  "come,"  until  Robert 
had  to  use  all  his  will  power  to  pull  himself  to- 
gether. 

When  evening  came  he  followed  the  command 
of  his  love ;  he  went  to  Willa. 

The  two  faced  each  other.  Their  eyes  again  met 
as  on  the  previous  evening,  and — Robert  under- 
stood. In  a  moment,  Willa  was  in  his  arms.  He 
had  done  his  waiting  in  the  past.  He  could  not 
wait  now.  Her  face  was  close  to  his,  and  he 


HEART  TO  HEART  237 

showered  it  with  kisses,  her  forehead,  her  cheeks, 
her  lips. 

"Forgive  me,  dear,"  he  said  at  last,  "but  I  love 
you  so." 

For  answer,  Willa  simply  hid  her  face  on  his 
shoulder  and  waited. 

"Let's  sit  down,"  he  said,  "you  are  trembling." 

He  led  her  to  a  divan.  To  Willa  it  was  the  hap- 
piest moment  she  had  ever  known.  Surely,  all  oth- 
er happy  hours  faded  into  nothingness  when  com- 
pared with  this ;  and  Robert  thought  he  had  found 
heaven  itself. 

Many  minutes  passed  before  either  could  speak 
of  anything  except  their  love  and  their  present  hap- 
piness. 

"But  I  must  tell  you  something,"  said  Willa. 
"So  far,  I  have  only  said  that  I  love  you.  Before 
I  promise  to  marry  you,  you  must  know — " 

"What,  Willa?"  gasped  Robert. 

And  Willa  told  him  of  the  shock  that  had  so 
recently  come  to  her;  of  what  a  struggle  it  had 
been,  of  how  glad  she  was  that  her  father  had 
partially  prepared  her  the  evening  before,  exact- 
ing from  her  her  promise  to  stay  with  them  until 
she  married,  no  matter  what  might  happen;  for 
had  he  not  done  so,  she  feared  the  grief  was  so 
awful  that  she  would  have  run  away,  or  done  some- 
thing dreadful,  but  her  promise  had  held  her  until 
she  had  once  more  gained  control  of  herself. 

"And,"  she  added,  "father  and  I  talked  the  oth- 
er night.  He  is  to  go  to-morrow,  if  Col.  Longley 


238  THE  PROBLEM 

returns,  and  have  the  necessary  papers  made  out, 
so  that  I  may  be  legally  as  well  as  morally  theirs, 
and  have  a  right  to  their  name." 

"Until  you  have  a  right  to  mine,"  said  Robert, 
drawing  her  to  him  and  kissing  her. 

"You  don't  mind,  then?"  she  asked. 

"Mind  what?"  asked  Robert. 

"That  I  am  not  their  very,  very  own  child?" 

"Willa,  it  is  you,  you  I  love,  and  it  is  you  I 
want.  Do  you  want  me?"  he  asked,  holding  her 
from  him  and  looking  straight  into  those  frank 
blue  eyes. 

Willa  met  them.    "And  I  want  you,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

CHANGES 

DURING  the  next  few  days  it  was 
learned  that  Col.  Longley  had  wired 
that  he  would  not  return  for  another 
month. 

"I  want  it  over  with.  I'll  let  Hastings  do  it," 
said  the  Doctor. 

No  one  was  ever  more  surprised  than  Albert 
Hastings  when  he  learned  the  nature  of  Dr.  War- 
ren's errand.  The  papers  such  as  he  deemed 
necessary  were  made  out,  to  one  of  which  he  wished 
to  have  the  signature  of  Charles  Stanley  Livermore 
if  he  still  lived.  The  Doctor,  knowing  the  awk- 
wardness of  such  an  explanation  through  letter, 
suggested  that  the  two  take  the  trip  to  Mr.  Liv- 
ermore's  home,  and  tell  him  the  story  direct.  It 
was  agreed,  and  the  two  went  on  the  following 
day. 

To  the  Doctor's  astonishment  he  found  the  old 
man  in  a  condition  on  which  he  had  not  planned. 
When  Mr.  Livermore  heard  them  talking  of 
"Emily"  and  "Willa"  at  the  Doctor's,  he  lost  the 
name  "Willa"  completely. 

"Emily — yes — little  Em — take  me  to  her.  Yes, 
— little  Em.  She'll  know  Bud,"  and  thus  the  old 
man  rambled  on,  as  he  trotted  around  from  room 
to  room,  and  finally  appeared  wearing  his  silk  hat 

239 


24o  THE  PROBLEM 

and  linen  duster,  for  it  was  a  hot  day.  In  one  hand 
was  his  gold-mounted  cane  which  had  been  his 
pride  from  a  young  man  up. 

Hastings  looked  at  the  Doctor  in  bewilderment. 
The  Doctor  looked  at  the  pathetic  creature  before 
him. 

"Very  well.  You  will  feel  better  when  you  see 
her,"  he  answered,  his  whole  heart  full  of  tender 
pity  for  his  brother  man. 

The  three  started.  It  was  a  two  hours'  ride 
by  train.  The  old  man  all  the  while  kept  mumbling 
to  himself  something  about  "little  sister, — little 
Em." 

The  Doctor  with  his  natural  forethought  had 
wired  home:  "Bringing  old  gentleman.  Weak. 
Thinks  W  is  Em." 

"Can't  do  business  this  way.  Will  see  you  to- 
morrow, Hastings,"  said  the  Doctor  at  the  car- 
riage door,  on  their  arrival,  thus  giving  the  young 
man  no  chance  to  witness  any  scene  within,  and  no 
chance  to  see  Willa. 

"He's  my  really  true  uncle,  mother?"  asked 
Willa,  as  they  saw  the  stranger  accompanying  the 
Doctor  up  the  path. 

"Your  mother's  brother,  dear,"  Mrs.  Warren 
answered. 

"I  knew  you  would  come  back,  Emily.  I  knew 
you  would  come  back.  I'm  old,  but  you  haven't 
grown  old  at  all.  You  are  just  the  same  as  when — " 
The  old  man  stopped.  He  could  not  say  the  words. 

The  Doctor  nodded  to  Willa,  as  he  said,  "She's 


CHANGES  241 

just  the  same,  isn't  she  grandpa?" 

Willa  saw  from  her  father's  tone  and  look  that 
he  thought  it  wiser  to  humor  the  old  man  in  his 
whim,  and  she  did. 

None  of  the  onlookers  realized  what  many  of 
the  old  man's  memories  were  at  that  time,  nor  the 
shock  that  they  were  giving  his  already  weakened 
system.  When  he  grew  exhausted,  he  lay  down, 
coaxing  Willa  to  "sit  beside  Bud."  Willa  did, 
and  gently  fanned  him  until  he  had  fallen  into  a 
child-like  sleep.  The  Doctor  studied  his  breathing. 
Finally  he  said: 

"I'm  going  to  telephone  for  Henry." 

This  he  did,  telling  him  as  delicately  as  he 
could  the  situation  before  him,  and  adding,  "I 
wouldn't  be  surprised  at  anything.  You  better  see 
him  yourself." 

The  morning  train  brought  Henry  and  little 
Stanley,  whom  Dr.  Livermore  had  taken  with  him 
for  a  double  purpose.  Stanley  was  a  favorite  with 
his  grandfather,  and  the  sight  of  him  might  bring 
the  old  man  to  his  normal  self  for  at  least  a  few 
moments  at  a  time;  and  further  still,  because  the 
boy,  with  his  lonliness  in  his  father's  absence,  and 
his  anxiety  over  his  grandfather's  condition  might 
prove  too  much  for  his  mother's  nerves,  as  the 
long  hoped  for  "little  Emily"  was  only  two  weeks 
old. 

For  the  first  half  hour  after  their  arrival,  the 
old  man  seemed  almost  normal.  He  talked  to 
Henry  of  Emily's  money,  his  wishes,  the  old  place, 


242  THE  PROBLEM 

and  then  he  asked  for  "Emily"  to  come. 

They  called  Willa.  "You've  forgiven  me?"  he 
asked  as  he  reached  for  her  hand. 

"Yes,  uncle,"  answered  Willa. 

"No — no — no  uncle,"  said  the  old  man,  scowl- 
ing. "Bud,  Bud,  call  me  'Bud'  the  way  you  used 
to." 

Willa  looked  to  her  father  for  courage,  and  then 
said: 

"It  is  all  right,  Bud.    Emily  forgives  you." 

The  tears  rushed  to  Willa's  eyes,  and  she  drop- 
ped in  a  heap  by  the  bedside,  burying  her  face  in 
the  snow  white  spread. 

"Little  sister,"  said  the  old  man,  trying  to  place 
his  hand  on  the  top  of  Willa's  head. 

Those  were  his  last  words.     For  three  days  he 

lay  in  a  stupor — and  all  was  over. 

******** 

He  was  taken  back  to  his  old  place  and  laid  be- 
side Henry's  mother. 
******** 

In  the  old  Livermore  home,  the  young  man  told 
the  Doctor  all  that  he  knew  on  the  subject,  told 
him  of  his  discovery  and  his  father's  discovery  of 
the  childish  likeness  of  Willa  to  his  Aunt  Emily, 
and  of  their  final  decision  that  it  was  merely  a  coin- 
cidence ;  he  told  him  of  his  grandfather's  property, 
which  rightfully  should  have  been  divided  equally 
between  his  two  living  children,  his  father  and  his 
Aunt  Emily  at  the  time;  of  his  father's  poor  in- 
vestments, lessening  his  own  share  until  only  the 


CHANGES  243 

old  home  remained,  with  merely  enough  for  the  old 
man's  maintenance,  which  accounted  for  Henry's 
having  helped  himself  from  the  very  first,  for  he 
did  not  mean  that  anything  done  for  him  should 
take  the  old  home  out  of  the  Livermore  name.  He 
told  him,  also,  of  his  father's  steadfastly  holding  to 
his  resolution  not  to  touch  a  cent  of  his  sister's 
share,  which  had  been  increasing  all  these  years, 
and  which,  the  last  that  he  knew  had  amounted  to 
over  thirty-seven  thousand  dollars. 

"Her's  belongs  to  Willa.  She  is  my  cousin,  you 
know,"  he  said. 

Doctor  Warren  seemed  stunned.  His  mind  had 
been  on  something  beside  property.  At  last  he  said : 

"Yes,  she  is  your  cousin." 

"And  you  will  tell  her?"  asked  Henry. 

"I  will  tell  her,  but  you  will  stop  at  our  place 
on  your  way  home  ?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"Yes,  I  will  stop.    I  want  to  see  her  again,"  an- 
swered Henry. 
******** 

When  the  Doctor  told  Willa,  the  first  question 
that  arose  in  her  mind  was  what  would  her  mother 
wish  her  to  do?  If  this  money  had  been  denied 
her  mother,  whose  right  came  first,  ought  she  to 
take  it? 

Her  father  and  mother  and  she  talked  earnestly. 
To  be  sure,  the  fact  that  Mr.  Livermore  had  re- 
pented changed  the  situation  to  some  extent.  Again 
Willa  thought  of  Henry,  who  by  his  father's  early 
investments  had  been  deprived  of  what  rightfully 


144  THE  PROBLEM 

was  his. 

"I  know  what  I'll  do.  Please  let  me  do  it,"  she 
pleaded. 

"What?"  asked  both. 

"Tell  Henry  that  I  will  take  half,  provided  he 
will  take  the  other  half.  If  not,  I  do  not  want  any 
of  it.  I  would  not  be  happy  with  it.  I'd  think 
of — "  She  stopped.  She  could  not  say  "mother"  of 
any  but  the  woman  beside  her.  "Of  her,"  she  at 
last  continued. 

"You  can  tell  him.  He  will  be  here  next  Mon- 
day," said  the  Doctor,  with  renewed  admiration 
and  respect  for  the  young  girl  that  they  both  loved 

as  their  life. 
******** 

Henry  came,  business  was  discussed,  and  finally 
settled  against  his  wishes,  but  in  the  only  way  pos- 
sible; for  Willa's  mind  was  made  up  and  there 
was  no  changing  it. 

When  it  was  over,  he  said,  "I  have  got  to  tell 
you  something  else." 

"Yes?"  they  all  answered. 

"You  know  that  the  news  of  father's  death  was 
in  the  papers?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Doctor. 

"Two  days  after  he  was  buried  I  received  a  note 
dated  at  Linton  Corner.  Read  it,"  he  said,  pass- 
ing it  to  the  Doctor  and  Willa  who  were  seated 
near  each  other. 

Together  they  read: 


CHANGES  245 

"Dear  Henry  I  hev  jest  heard  of  your  pa's  death, 
will  you  come  to  me.  I  otter  told  him.  Its  bout 
Emily. 

"Yours  truly, 

"NANCY." 

When  they  had  finished,  both  looked  at  the  one 
to  whom  the  note  was  addressed. 

"I  was  not  half  so  big  as  Stanley  when  Nancy 
got  married,  but  I  remembered  her,  and  I  hunted 
her  out.  You  know  the  letter  you  let  me  read?" 
he  asked. 

The  Doctor  nodded. 

"It  seems  Aunt  Em  went  to  Nancy's.  She  died 
there,  and  was  buried  as  Nancy's  niece.  The  neigh- 
bors did  not  know  the  difference.  She  showed  me 
where, — and — "  Henry  halted.  Willa  had  low- 
ered her  head  in  her  hands  and  all  hearts  ached  for 
her. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  Doctor,  tenderly  laying  his 
hand  on  Willa's  shoulder. 

Henry's  voice  shook  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears 
as  he  said : 

"I  laid  her  beside  father.  He's  found  his  Tit- 
tle Em'  at  last." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  PICTURE'S  PERSPECTIVE 

CHRISTMAS   DAY   of  the   following 
year  brought  very  different  thoughts  and 
scenes  to  the  Warren  home  in  Ripley.    It 
was   Willa's   wedding   day.      Her   old 
chums,  Dorothy  and  Amy  were  bridesmaids;   and 
James  Davis,  a  young  man  at  the  bank,  was  best 
man.    The  ceremony  was  performed  at  high  noon 
by  the  Rev.  Alexander  Lockwood,  D.  D.    Among 
their  out  of  town  guests  were  Henry,  Emily  and 
Stanley,  from  Canton;    and  Si,  Hannah,  Joseph, 
and  Lawrence  from  Woodrow. 

Willa  made  a  beautiful  bride,  indeed.  As  she 
walked  in  by  her  father's  side,  tall,  graceful,  dig- 
nified, gowned  in  white  point  de  esprit  over  white 
silk,  and  crowned  by  the  bridal  veil  that  had  been 
worn  by  Mrs.  Warren,  so  long  before  when  taking 
similar  steps  which  had  linked  her  life  with  that  of 
Hunt  M.  Warren,  all  eyes  were  on  her,  and  those 
of  her  future  husband  seemed  riveted  on  the  ap- 
proaching figure.  They  never  wavered  until  she 
was  by  his  side.  The  ceremony  was  brief,  but  beau- 
tiful. No  hearts  were  so  deeply  touched  as  those 
of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren,  and  Robert's  mother, 
whom  they  saw  was  shown  every  possible  attention ; 
indeed,  the  two,  together  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hoi- 
way,  insisted  that  she  remain  with  them  during  the 

246 


THE  PICTURE'S  PERSPECTIVE    247 

weeks  of  the  honeymoon  which  were  to  be  spent  in 
California,  with  "Auntie  Mabel,"  Hallie,  and  Clif- 
ford, that  loyal  friend  of  Willa's  father  and  moth- 
er, the  one  whom  she  needed  to  thank  for  being  the 
means  of  guiding  her  to  such  blessed  people  and 
such  a  blessed  home — the  one  who  had  guarded 
their  secret  so  loyally  during  all  these  years. 

Dinner  was  served,  the  two  started,  but  not  until 
a  few  brief  heart  to  heart  talks  were  had  with 
those  she  loved  best,  best  with  the  exception  of 
Robert  who  was  now  a  part  of  herself. 

Wedding  presents  had  poured  in  from  all  sides. 
The  one  that  meant  most  to  the  young  couple  was 
a  deed  made  out  in  Willa's  name  of  the  place  across 
the  street,  which  house  stood  on  the  spot  opposite 
the  space  between  her  old  home  and  that  of  grand- 
pa and  grandma.  This  was  a  present  from  the 
four,  who  had  found  that  they  loved  Willa  too 
well  not  to  have  her  as  near  to  them  as  possible. 

During  the  weeks  of  her  absence  the  inside  of 
the  house  was  newly  whitened,  painted,  and  pa- 
pered; and  contract  made  for  the  outside  work  to 
be  done  in  the  spring. 

"I  would  love  to  furnish  it,"  said  Mrs.  Warren 
one  day,  "but  a  bride  does  take  so  much  comfort 
in  doing  that  for  her  own  home  that  I  cannot  de- 
prive Willa  of  the  pleasure." 

"No,  we'll  wait.  We'll  keep  them  here  while 
they  are  settling,  won't  we?"  answered  the  Doctor. 

During  their  six  weeks'  holiday,  no  morning 
passed  when  a  message  did  not  reach  the  home  peo- 


248  THE  PROBLEM 

pie   from   the   "children,"   and  sometimes,   night 
brought  another.     Without  these,  the  days  would 

have  been  lonesome  ones,  indeed. 
******** 

Five  years  have  passed.  Grandma  Emmons  has 
left  them,  but  she  left  behind  to  the  town  a  noble 
legacy  in  her  son ;  for,  both  because  it  was  his  na- 
ture, and  because  of  his  great  love  for  his  wife, 
Robert  had  made  the  most  and  the  best  of  his  op- 
portunities. When  Mr.  Bradford  had  suddenly 
dropped  dead  at  his  desk,  Robert  had  unanimously 
been  chosen  to  fill  his  place  at  the  bank  as  cashier. 
The  three  houses  had  been  named,  "The  happy 
triangle,"  so  united  were  the  inmates,  and  nothing 
added  more  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  all 
than  the  presence  of  four-year-old  Hunt  Warren 
Emmons,  and  Baby  Margaret,  who  had  come  to 
make  them  a  visit,  the  length  of  which  rested  with 
God. 


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